LIFE  AND    POEMS 


OF 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


THE 


LIFE    AND    POEMS 

OF 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

(A  NEW  MEMOIR  IJY  E.  L.  DIDIER.) 

• 

AND     ADDITIONAL     POEMS. 


Foe's  Cottage  at  Fordham. 

NEW   YORK : 
W.    J.    WIDDLETON,     PUBLISHER 

l877. 


COPYRIGHT,   1876, 

BY 
W.  J.  WlDDLETON,  PUBLISHTR. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co., 
Nos.  10  to  20  Astor  Place,  New  York. 


A 


A  /  /O 


TO 

WILLIAM  J.   McCLELLAN,  ESQ., 

BALTIMORE. 

In  associating  your  name  with  mine  in  this  tribute  to  a  genius  whom  we 
both  so  enthusiastically  admire,  I  desire  to  express  my  appreciation  of  the 
rwarm  and  generous  interest,  which,  from  first  to  last,  you  have  taken  in  the 
Work,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  testify  to  our  long  and  uninterrupted 
friendship. 

EUGENE    L.  DIDIER. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Preface 9 

Introductory  Letter II 

Life  of  Edgar  A.  Poe 19 

The  Raven 131 

Lenore 138 

Hymn .    140 

A  Valentine 141 

The  Coliseum 142 

To  Helen 144 

To 146 

Ulalume 147 

TheBells t 151 

An  Enigma 156 

Annabel  Lee 156 

To  My  Mother 758 

The  Haunted  Palace 159 

The  Conqueror  Worm 161 

To  F s   S.  O d 162 

To  One  in  Paradise 163 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 164 

The  City  in  the  Sea 165 

The  Sleeper 167 

Silence 169 

A  Dream  Within  a  Dream 170 


8  CONTENTS. 

PACE 

Dream-Land 171 

To  Zante 173 

Eulalie „ 1 74 

Eldorado 175 

Israfel 1 76 

For  Annie „ 178 

To .. 182 

Bridal  Ballad , 182 

ToF 184 

Scenes  from  "Politian" 185 

Poems  Written  in  Youth.— Sonnet — To  Science 209 

Al  Aaraaf 210 

To  the  River 229 

Tamerlane 230 

To  239 

A  Dream 240 

Romance 240 

Fairy-Land 241 

The  Lake. — To 243 

Song 244 

To  M.  L.  S 245 

Spirits  of  the  Dead 246 

To  I  telen 247 

Alone 248 

The  Poetic  Principle 249 

The  Philosophy  of  Composition 287 


PREFACE. 


DURING  the  twenty-seven  years  that  have  passed  since 
Edgar  A.  Poe's  death,  his  fame  has  been  steadily  increas 
ing  and  extending,  but  the  world  has  remained  in  ignor 
ance  of  the  true  story  of  the  poet's  life.  The  present 
memoir  is  as  full  and  complete  as  it  is  possible  to  make 
it.  Every  person  accessible  to  the  writer,  who  possessed 
any  information  upon  the  subject,  has  been  approached, 
and  seldom  in  vain.  Much  fresh  and  interesting  infor 
mation  has  been  obtained  ;  many  false  statements,  here 
tofore  accepted  without  question,  have  been  corrected. 

The  cordial  thanks  of  the  author  are  heartily  tendered 
to  Mrs.  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,  for  her  valuable  Introduc 
tory  Letter,  and  for  extracts  from  Poe's  letters  to  William 
J.  McClellan,  Esq.,  who,  with  characteristic  generosity, 
placed  at  my  disposal  his  entire  collection  of  Poeana;  to 
Professor  Joseph  H.  Clarke,  for  his  interesting  sketch  of 


10  PREFACE. 

Edgar  A.  Poe,  when  his  pupil  at  the  Richmond  Academy; 
to  Colonel  John  T.  L.  Preston,  of  the  Virginia  Military 
Institute,  and  Andrew  Johnston,  Esq.,  of  Richmond,  for 
their  reminiscences  of  Poe  as  a  schoolboy  ;  to  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Wertenbaker,  Librarian  of  the  University  of  Virginia, 
and  to  Neilson  Poe,  Esq.,  for  details  of  family  history  and 
personal  recollections  of  the  poet. 

EUGENE  L.  DIDIER. 

185  MADISON  AVENUE, 
BALTIMORE,  August  i,  187  6. 


INTRODUCTORY   LETTER. 

MR.  EUGENE  L.  DIDIER  : 

Dear  Sir  : — I  am  gratified  to  know  that  one  who  so  sin 
cerely  admires  the  genius  of  Edgar  Poe,  and  who  must  have 
access  to  many  hitherto  unexplored  sources  of  information 
as  to  his  early  history  and  associates,  is  preparing  to  pub 
lish  the  result  of  his  investigations  in  relation  to  a  period 
concerning  which  we  still  know  so  little.  I  doubt  not  that 
whatever  you  may  have  to  say  on  the  subject  will  be  of  per 
manent  value  in  the  elucidation  of  a  story  whose  facts  are 
so  singularly  evasive  and  uncertain. 

To  translate  that  mysterious,  shadowy,  poetic  life  of  his, 
with  its  elusive  details  and  mythical  traditions,  into  the  fixed 
facts  and  clear  outlines  of  authentic  narrative,  must,  I  fear, 
prove  a  difficult  task  to  the  most  conscientious  annalist. 

In  your  letter  of  June  26,  you  say :  "  N.  P.  Willis 
speaks  of  Poe  as  living  at  Fordham  while  he  was  employed 
upon  the  Mirror,  which  was  in  the  autumn  of  1844  and 
early  winter  of  1845."  I  nave  no  certain  knowledge  of  the 
time  when  Poe  was  employed  on  the  Mirror ;  but  I  have  a 
very  definite  and  decided  knowledge  as  to  the  fact  that  dur 
ing  the  whole  of  the  winter  1845-6,  he  was  residing  in  the 
city  of  New  York — I  think  in  Amity  Street.  He  was,  at  that 
time,  a  frequent  visitor  and  ever- welcome  guest  at  the  houses 


12      :    \  \    ^INTRODUCTORY    LETTER. 

ofi  m-atay  ;persc>i>s«  with  ^whbm  I  have  long  been  intimately 
acquainted- -among  others,,  £he  Hon.  John  R.  Bartlett,  then 
of  the  firm  of  Bartlett  &  Welford,  and  Miss  Anne  C. 
Lynch,  now  Mrs.  Botta — who  were  accustomed  to  receive  in 
formally  at  their  houses,  on  stated  evenings,  the  best  intellec 
tual  society  of  the  city.  To  reinforce  my  memory  on  the 
subject,  I  have  just  referred  to  letters  received  from  various 
correspondents  in  New  York,  during  the  winters  1845  an<3 
1846,  in  all  of  which  the  name  of  the  poet  frequently  occurs. 

In  one  of  these  letters,  dated  January  20,  1846,  the  writer 
says :  "  Speaking  of  our  receptions,  I  must  tell  you  what  a 
pleasant  one  we  had  on  Saturday  evening,  in  Waverley  Place; 
or  rather  I  will  tell  you  the  names  of  some  of  the  company, 
and  you  will  know,  among  others,  that  of  Cassius  Clay ;  Mr. 
Hart,  the  sculptor,  who  is  doing  Henry  Clay  in  marble  ;  Hal- 
leek  ;  Locke  (the  Man  in  the  Moon)  ;  Hunt,  of  the  Merchant's 
Magazine;  Hudson;  Mr.  Bellows  ;  Poe  ;  Headley  ;  Miss 
Sedgwick  ;  Mrs.  Kirkland  ;  Mrs.  Osgood  ;  Mrs.  Seba  Smith  ; 
Mrs.  Ellet ;  and  many  others,  more  or  less  distinguished." 

One  of  these  letters,  in  which  the  date  of  the  year  is  want 
ing,  alludes  to  a  controversy,  which  took  place  at  one  of  the 
soirees,  between  Margaret  Fuller  (Ossoli)  and  Poe,  about 
some  writer  whom,  in  her  lofty,  autocratic  way,  the  lady  had 
been  annihilating.  Miss  Fuller  was  then  writing  critical 
papers  for  the  New  York  Tribune.  Poe,  espousing  the  cause 
of  the  vanquished,  with  a  few  keen,  incisive  rejoinders, 
obtained  such  ascendency  over  the  eloquent  and  oracu 
lar  contessa,  that  somebody  whispered,  "The  Raven  has 
perched  upon  the  casque  of  Pallas,  and  pulled  all  the  leathers 
out  of  her  cap." 


INTRODUCTORY    LETTER.  13 

In  another  letter,  dated  January  7,  1846,  I  find  the  follow 
ing  :  "  I  meet  Mr.  Poe  very  often  at  the  receptions.  He  is 
the  observed  of  all  observers.  His  stories  are  thought 
wonderful,  and  to  hear  him  repeat  the  Raven,  which  he  does 
very  quietly,  is  an  event  in  one's  life.  People  seem  to  think 
there  is  something  uncanny*  about  him,  and  the  strangest 
stories  are  told,  and,  what  is  more,  believed,  about  his  mes 
meric  experiences,  at  the  mention  of  which  he  always  smiles. 
His  smile  is  captivating !  .  .  .  Everybody  wants  to 
know  him  ;  but  only  a  very  few  people  seem  to  get  well  ac 
quainted  with  him." 

This  was  in  the  spring  of  1846,  when  Poe  was  at  the  very- 
acme  of  his  literary  and  social  success  among  the  literati 
of  New  York. 

His  wife's  health,  which  had  always  been  delicate,  was 
now  rapidly  failing,  and,  hoping  that  she  might  be  benefited 
by  change  of  air,  the  family  removed  to  Fordham.  Mr.  Poe 
first  took  his  wife  there  on  a  house-hunting  tour  of  inspec 
tion,  when  the  fruit  trees  were  in  blossom,  and  the  aspect  of 
the  little  cottage  temptingly  beautiful  to  the  invalid.  Whether 
they  engaged  it  and  removed  there  at  once,  I  do  not  know  ; 
but  it  is  my  impression  that  they  did,  and  that  Poe  withdrew 
himself  entirely  from  the  literary  circles  where  his  presence 
had  proved  so  attractive. 

There  had,  moreover,  arisen  at  this  time,  among  Poe's 
friends  and  admirers,  social  as  well  as  literary  feuds  and 
rivalries  of  an  incredible  bitterness,  and  an  intense  vitality — • 
feuds  and  rivalries  whose  unappeased  ghosts  still  "  peep  arid 
mutter." 

The  malign  paragraph,  falsely  attributed  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth 


14  INTRODUCTORY    LETTER. 

Oakes  Smith,  which  recently  went  the  rounds  of  the  news 
papers,  was  doubtless  of  this  class.  It  was,  apparently,  an 
intentional  perversion  of  a  report  stated  by  her  in  an  able 
article,  written  for  the  Home  Journal,  which  appeared  early 
in  March  or  April  of  the  present  year. 

I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  without  appealing-  to  her  on  the 
subject,  that  the  scandal  so  industriously  circulated  was 
neither  written  nor  authorized  by  her.*  It  is  not  only  at 
variance  with  the  whole  tenor  of  the  article  in  question,  but 
with  that  of  a  private  letter,  written  within  the  year,  in  which 
she  says  :  "  Mr.  Poe  was  the  last  person  to  whom  I  should 
ever  have  attributed  any  grossness.  ...  I  saw  women 
jealous  in  their  admiration  of  him.  I  think  he  often  found 
himself  entangled  by  their  plots  and  rivalries.  I  do  not  for 
a  moment  think  he  was  false  in  his  relations  to  them." 

Moncure  Conway,  too,  who  had  reason  to  know  something 
of  Foe's  habits,  in  this  particular,  from  gentlemen  of  Rich 
mond  who  had  been  intimately  associated  with  him,  says, 
in  a  cordial  notice  of  Mr.  Ingram's  Memoir,  prefixed  to 
the  Standard  edition  of  Poe's  works  :  "  Edgar  Poe  was 
exceptionally  chivalrous  in  his  relations  with  women,"  and  he 


*  Since  the  above  was  written,  the  following  note  from  Mrs.  Smith  has  been 
received  : 

HOLLYWOOD,  CARTERET  Co.,  N.  C., 

DEAR  MRS.  WHITMAN  :  ?u&  '•*'  *S76- 

I  should  be  loth  to  think  that  any  one  who  had  ever  known  me  could  believe 
that  I  wrote  the  coarse,  slanderous  paragraph  which  you  quote  from  the  news 
papers  in  your  letter  of  the  i2th  instant.  I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  it  till  now. 
Mr.  Poe  was  no  such  person  as  that  would  imply.  Is  it  not  strange  that  so 
much  misrepresentation  should  still  follow  one  so  long  in  the  grave  ?  It  is  a 
tribute,  but  a  cruel  tribute,  to  the  power  of  his  marvelous  genius. 

E.  O.  S. 


INTRODUCTORY    LETTER.  15 

illustrates  the  remark  by  an  anecdote  corroborative  of  its 
truth.  "  The  innumerable  legends  which  accumulated  round 
his  life  and  name,"  says  Mr.  Conway,  "  were,  in  one  sense,  a 
tribute  to  his  extraordinary  powers.  He  is  one  of  the  few 
men  who  are  represented  by  a  mythology." 

The  persistent  enmity,  which  follows  his  fame  like  a 
shadow,  is  without  a  parallel  in  the  literary  history  of  our 
country.  While  many  of  the  old  slanders  have  lost  their 
pungency,  Poe's  memory  continues  to  be  assailed  on  the 
most  baseless  and  preposterous  pretexts.  Apparently  society 
needs  a  typical  Don  Giovanni,  a  representative  Mephisto- 
pheles,  to  frighten  reprobates  and  refractory  children,  and  to 
point  a  pious  moral. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Bartol,  of  Boston,  a  most  exemplary  and 
benignant  gentleman,  of  progressive  views  and  liberal  ten 
dencies,  lately  illustrated  an  eloquent  specimen  of  pulpit 
oratory,  by  denouncing  Poe  as  "  the  unhappy  master,  who 
recklessly  carried  the  torch  of  his  genius  into  the  haunts 
of  the  drunkard  and  the  debauchee,  until  he  utterly  extin 
guished  it  in  his  profligate  poems  !  "  Evidently  the  good  Doc 
tor  had  not  read  these  "  profligate  poems" — poems  to  which 
the  severest  moralist  accords  "  a  matchless  purity."  At  what 
shrine,  then,  was  the  torch  of  his  clerical  criticism  lighted  ? 
Probably  he  had  been  reading  Mr.  Francis  Gerry  Fairfield's 
"  Mad  Man  of  Letters,"  and  vaguely  associated  with  "  the 
haunt  of  the  drunkard,"  Sandy  Welsh's  cellar,  the  noonday 
glass  of  ale,  the  cotemporaries,  and  the  joint-stock  company 
who  got  up  the  Raven  !  Out  of  such  materials  is  the  scroll 
of  history  replenished  ! 

Mr.  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  in  a  note  to  his  article  on 
"  Poe,  Irving,  and  Hawthorne,"  as  published  in  Scribner's 


I  6  INTRODUCTORY    LETTER. 

Monthly  for  April,  shows  the  heedless  manner  in  which  Mr. 
Fairfield  cites  his  authorities. 

"  In  his  '  Mad  Man  of  Letters/  "  says  Mr.  Lathrop,  "  he 
quotes  the  testimony  of  Moreau  de  Tours  as  coincident  with 
that  of  Maudsley  in  the  assertion  that  the  more  original 
orders  of  genius  are  akin  to  madness."  Mr.  Lathrop  says 
that  Dr.  Maudsley  says  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  that  he  admits 
that  Poe's  genius  was  akin  to  madness,  but  denies  that  it 
was  genius  of  the  highest  kind. 

However  this  may  be — and  we  think  Dr.  Maudsley  is  not 
always  luminous  and  consistent  with  himself  on  this  obscure 
question — it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  cite  here  what 
the  learned  alienist  said  in  a  somewhat  rhetorical  article  on 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  written  for  the  Journal  of  Mental  Science, 
April,  1860.  The  purport  of  the  article  was  to  show  that, 
with  a  nature  so  rarely  and  sensitively  organized,  developed 
under  circumstances  so  exceptionally  perilous,  Poe's  strange 
and  sorrowful  career  was  not  only  natural,  but  inevitable. 

"Strange,"  says  Dr.  Maudsley,  "how  far  back  lies  the 
origin  of  any  event  in  this  world  !  Remembering  the  young 
law  student,  the  father  of  the  poet,  sitting,  with  rapt  coun 
tenance,  in  the  pit  of  the  Baltimore  Theater,  and  absorbed  in 
the  enchanting  actress  upon  whom  every  eye  was  turned  in 
admiration,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  that  in  this  supreme 
moment  lay  the  germ  of  things  which  were  to  occupy  the 
world's  attention,  so  long,  it  may  be,  as  it  existed  :  Edgar 
Poe,  his  poetry,  and  the  amazement  of  mankind  at  his 
strange,  lurid,  and  irregular  existence." 

After  this  it  matters  little  in  what  precise  order  or  rank  of 
the  poetical  hierarchy  the  Doctor  accords  him  a  place  ;  his 
words  are  an  involuntary  tribute  to  a  genius,  "  whose  *"  "*"* 


INTRODUCTORY    LETTER.  17 

potency,  dissociated  from  other  elements,"  Mr.  Lathrop 
admits  to  be  "  unrivaled  and  pre-eminent." 

In  connection  with  Dr.  Maudsley's  theory  of  antenatal  in 
fluences,  one  of  those  strange  coincidences  which  startled 
Macbeth  as  an  intimation  of  "fate  and  metaphysical  aid," 
happened  to  me  yesterday. 

Among  a  large  collection  of  old  plays  and  pamphlets, 
which,  after  lying  perdu  for  half  a  century,  I  was  just  about 
to  surrender  to  an  importunate  chiffonier,  my  eye  fell  upon 
one  as  worn  and  yellow  as  the  priceless  laces  of  a  centen 
nial  belle.  The  title  arrested  me  ;  it  was  " '  The  Wood 
Daemon  ;  or,  the  Clock  has  Struck ! '  a  Grand,  Romantic, 
Cabalistic  Melodrama,  in  Three  Acts,  interspersed  with 
Processions,  Pageants,  and  Pantomimes  [as  performed  at 
the  Boston  Theater  with  unbounded  applause].  Boston: 
1808."  I  turned  the  page  with  a  premonitory  chill,  and  lo  ! 
among  the  list  of  performers,  I  found  the  name  ot  "Mr.  Poe." 

In  a  curious  preface,  dated  March  30,  1808,  the  soi-di- 
sant  "  author,"  admitting  that  he  had  taken  the  plot,  etc.,  etc., 
from  M.  G.  Lewis,  "  commits  his  '  Wood  Daemon,'  with  all  its 
defects,  to  the  fostering  bosom  of  an  indulgent  public,  in  the 
trembling  hope  that,  as  the  production  of  a  native  Ameri 
can,  it  may  be  found  worthy  of  their  cheering  patronage." 

Apparently  the  "  gentle  public "  did  not  disappoint  the 
trust  reposed  in  it. 

A  note  prefixed  to  Byron's  unfinished  drama,  "  The  De 
formed  Transformed,"  states  that  the  plot  was  taken  in  part 
from  the  same  romance  which  furnished  M.  G.  Lewis  with  the 
plot  of  his  "  Wood  Daemon,"  and  in  part  from  the  "  Faust "  of 
Goethe. 


I  8  INTRODUCTORY    LETTER. 

Tales  of  the  wild  and  wonderful  were  winging  their  way 
from  Germany  and  from  the  Orient,  to  possess  the  minds 
of  Scott  and  Coleridge,  Shelley  and  Godwin,  Moore  and 
Southey,  and  Savage  Landor,  whose  "  Geber "  surpassed 
them  all.  A  taste  for  melodrama,  with  its  gorgeous  pageants 
and  grand  spectacles,  was  beginning  to  take  possession  of  the 
stage,  until,  as  Mrs.  Kemble  has  told  us,  in  a  recent  chapter 
of  her  "  Old  Woman's  Gossip,"  the  splendid  opera  of  "  Der 
Freyschutz  "  swept  everything  before  it. 

Sorcery  and  Necromancy,  Wild  Yagers  and  Wild  Hunts 
men,  Wood  Daemons  and  Specters  and  "  Ghoul-haunted 
Woodlands"  ruled  the  hour.  The  clock  had  struck;  and, 
to  judge  from  present  appearances,  the  end  is  not  yet. 

When  "  The  Daemon  "  made  his  first  appearance  in  Bos 
ton,  Dr.  Maudsley's  impressible  young  law  student,  then  a 
husband  and  father,  was  seeking  a  precarious  subsistence 
by  playing,  sorrowfully  enough,  we  may  well  believe,  his 
subsidiary  part  in  the  great  pageant.  To  him,  doubtless, 

"  The  play  was  the  tragedy  '  Man,' 
And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm." 

What  effect  these  dramatic  antecedents  and  the  influences 
of  the  hour  may  have  had  on  the  young  poet,  who  made  his 
first  appearance  on  the  stage  of  life  within  a  year  from  that 
date,  Dr.  Maudsley  may  perhaps  be  able  to  determine. 

Remembering  these  things,  what  a  weird  significance  must 
ever  henceforth  attach  to  that  wonderful  poem, 

"  Lo  !  'tis  a  gala  night." 

SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN. 
PROVIDENCE,  R.  I.,  July,  1876. 


LIFE  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  POE  FAMILY. — GENERAL  POE,  THE  GRANDFATHER  OF  THE 
iWr. — His  PATRIOTIC  DEVOTION  TO  THE  CAUSE  OF  AMERI 
CAN  INDEPENDENCE. — DAVID  POE,  JR.,  THE  FATHER  OF 
EDGAR. — His  ROMANTIC  MARRIAGE. — SKETCH  OF  MR.  AND 
MRS.  POE'S  THEATRICAL  CAREER. — THEIR  TRAGICAL  DEATH. 

|HE  life  of  a  poet,  however  distinguished,  seldom 
offers  that  agreeable  variety  which  makes  the 
lives  of  heroes  so  interesting.  But  the  life  of 
the  author  of  "The  Raven  "  furnishes  an  acknowledged 
exception  to  this  general  rule.  The  story  of  the  beautiful 
and  gifted  boy,  who,  reared  in  luxury  and  taught  to  expect 
a  fortune,  was  thrown  upon  the  world,  poor  and  friend 
less,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty  ;  who,  by  the  force  of 
supreme  genius,  placed  his  name  among  the  highest 
in  the  highest  ranks  of  fame ;  whose  glory  has  brightened 
as  the  years  rolled  along, 

"  Till  now  his  genius  fills  a  throne, 
And  nations  marvel  at  his  feet  " — 

such  a  story  must  command  the  attention   of  all  who 


2O  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

admire  gifts  so  exalted,  and  feel  sympathy  for  sorrows  so 
overwhelming  as  were  the  gifts  and  sorrows  of  Edgar  A. 
Poe. 

For  one  hundred  years  the  Poe  family  have  occupied 
a  prominent  position  in  the  city  of  Baltimore,  and  have 
been  conspicuously  identified  with  its  business,  literary, 
professional,  and  educational  interests.  David  Poe, 
the  elder  (by  courtesy  called  General  Poe),  the  grand 
father  of  the  poet,  was  born  in  Londonderry,  Ireland,  in 
1743.  His  father  was  John  Poe;  his  mother,  the  sister 
of  Admiral  MacBride.*  About  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  the  family  emigrated  to  America,  and  settled  in 
Pennsylvania,  where  David  grew  to  manhood,  and  mar 
ried  the  beautiful  Miss  Cairnes,  of  that  State.  In  the 
memorable  year  1776,  he  took  up  his  permanent  resi 
dence  in  Baltimore,  where  he  was  soon  recognized  as  one 
of  the  leading  citizens.  He  took  an  immediate  and 
active  interest  in  the  struggle  for  independence.  We  find, 
in  Force's  "American  Archives"  (5th  Series,  Vol.  III.,  p. 
1147),  that  on  the  loth  of  December,  1776,  David  Poe 
bore  a  prominent  part  in  the  expulsion  of  Robert  Chris 
tie,  the  Royal  Sheriff  of  Baltimore  ;  and  in  the  Maryland 


*  Admiral  MacBride  was  a  distinguished  officer  of  the  British  Navy,  and  took 
a  conspicuous  part  in  the  engagement  off  Copenhagen,  in  March,  1801,  under 
Lord  Nelson.  Admiral  MacBride  was  a  member  of  Parliament  for  several 
years.  Mrs.  John  Poe,  the  mother  of  General  Poe,  died  in  Baltimore,  at  the  age 
of  one  hundred  and  six,  and  vas  buried  in  Westminster  Church-yard. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  21 

Journal,  of  March  25,  1777,  mention  is  made  of  an 
attack  upon  Mr.  William  Goddard  by  David  Poe  and 
other  members  of  the  Whig  Club.  Goddard  was  the 
editor  of  The  Journal,  and  had  made  himself  obnoxious 
to  the  patriotic  people  of  Baltimore  by  publishing  unfa 
vorable  criticisms  of  Washington.  Hence  this  attack 
upon  him  by  the  Whig  Club,  which  was  composed  of  the 
best  citizens.  Mr.  Poe  was  a  zealous  member  of  the  club 
until  ks  dissolution  about  a  year  later. 

On  the  i"7th  of  September,  1779,  David  Poe  was 
appointed,  by  the  Governor  and  Council  of  Maryland, 
Assistant  Deputy-Quartermaster  for  Baltimore.  In  this 
position  he  was  very  energetic,  and  frequently,  when  the 
State  funds  were  exhausted,  he  made  advances  from  his 
personal  means,  and  rendered  very  valuable  service  to 
the  cause  of  the  patriots.*  His  official  position  required 
him  to  correspond  with  General  Smallwood,  Governor 
Lee,  General  Gist,  and  other  distinguished  officers  of  the 
Old  Maryland  Line.  Some  of  his  letters  may  be  found 
in  the  Maryland  papers  of  the  '76  Society  :  these  letters 
breathe  the  most  ardent  patriotism,  and  might  be  read 
with  benefit  at  the  present  day.  In  Purviance's  "Balti 
more  During  the  Revolution,"  page  106,  we  find  the  fol 
lowing  estimate  of  David  Poe  :  "He  was  a  faithful  officer, 

*  Among  other  things,  General  Poe  furnished  two  brass  cannons,  which  were 
used  at  Yorktown.  His  patriotism  ruined  him  pecuniarily,  and  he  died  quite 
poor. 


22  .  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

and  was  held  in  great  estimation  by  all  who  had  business 
to  transact  with  him.  Such  was  his  devotion  to  his 
country,  that  it  was  almost  proverbial,  and  so  unabating 
was  it  long  after  peace  was  proclaimed  that,  by  the  public 
sentiment,  he  became  a  brevet-general,  and  in  his  later 
days  was  better  known  as  General  Poe  than  by  any  other 
name/' 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  David  Poe  engaged  in  the  dry- 
goods  business  in  Baltimore.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
First  Branch  of  the  City  Council  in  1799-1800.  This 
was  the  only  public  position  he  held  after  the  Revolution 
ary  War.  When  Baltimore  was  threatened  by  the  Brit 
ish,  in  September,  1814,  General  Poe  volunteered  in  the 
defense  of  the  city,  and,  although  then  seventy-one  years 
old,  he  took  an  active  part  in  the  battle  of  North  Point, 
where  the  enemy  were  ignominiously  defeated  by  the 
brave  militia  of  Maryland. 

General  Poe  died  on  the  iyth  of  October,  1816,  in  the 
seventy-fourth  year  of  his  age.  The  Baltimore  papers,  in 
announcing  the  death  of  the  noble  old  patriot,  paid 
glowing  tribute  to  his  many  good  qualities.  He  died,  as 
he  lived,  a  zealous  republican,  regretted  by  an  extensive 
circle  of  relatives  and  friends.  General  Poe's  enthusiastic 
devotion  to  the  American  cause  won  for  him  the  friend 
ship  of  Washington,  Lafayette,  and  the  other  leading  men 
of  that  time.  At  the  reception  given  to  General  Lafayette, 
by  the  surviving  officers  and  sailors  of  the  Revolution,  at 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  23 

Baltimore,  October  23,  1824,  he  said  :  "I  have  not  seen 
among  these  my  friendly  and  patriotic  commissary,  Mr. 
David  Poe,  \vho  resided  in  Baltimore  when  I  was  here  in 
1781,  and,  out  of  his  very  limited  means,  supplied  me 
with  five  hundred  dollars  to  aid  in  clothing  my  troops, 
and  whose  wife,  with  her  own  hands,  cut  out  five  hundred 
pairs  of  pantaloons,  and  superintended  the  making  of  them 
for  the  use  of  my  men."  Lafayette  was  informed  that 
Mr.  Poe  was  dead,  but  that  his  wife  was  still  living.  He 
expressed  an  anxious  wish  to  see  her.  The  next  day  he 
entered  a  coach,  and,  escorted  by  a  troop  cf  horse,  paid 
his  respects  to  the  venerable  'lady.  He  spoke  to  her  in 
grateful  terms  of  the  friendly  assistance  he  had  received 
from  her  and  her  husband.  "  Your  husband,"  said  La 
fayette,  pressing  his  hand  on  his  breast,  "was  my  friend, 
and  the  aid  I  received  from  you  both  was  greatly  benefi 
cial  to  my  troops." 

General  Poe  had  six  children,  of  whom  the  eldest  was 
David  Poe,  Jr.,  the  father  of  Edgar.  He  was  a  hand 
some,  dashing,  clever  young  fellow,  and  after  receiving  as 
finished  an  education  as  the  schools  of  Baltimore  then 
furnished,  he  commenced  the  study  of  the  law  in  the 
office  of  William  Gwynn,  Esq.,  an  eminent  member 
of  the  Baltimore  bar,  and  editor  of  The  Federal  Gazelle. 
Young  Poe  and  several  of  his  gay  companions  formed 
an  association  called  the  Thespian  Club,  for  the  promo 
tion  of  a  taste  for  the  drama.  They  met  in  a  large  room 


24  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

in  a  house  belonging  to  General  Poe,  on  Baltimore  Street, 
near  Charles  Street,  then  a  fashionable  locality  for  private 
residences.  Here,  at  their  weekly  meetings,  they  recited 
passages  from  the  old  dramatists,  and  performed  the 
popular  plays  of  the  day,  for  the  entertainment  of  them 
selves  and  their  friends. 

David  Poe  became  so  infatuated  with  the  stage  that  he 
secretly  left  his  home  in  Baltimore  and  went  to  Charles 
ton,  where  he  was  announced  to  make  his  "first  appear 
ance  on  any  stage."  One  of  his  uncles  (William  Poe),* 
who  lived  in  Augusta,  Georgia,  saw  the  announcement  in 
the  newspapers  ;  he  went  to  Charleston,  took  David  off  the 
stage,  and  put  him  in  the  law  office  of  the  Hon.  John 
Forsyth,  of  Augusta.  He  had  always  been  fond  of  the 
society  of  actors,  and  was  more  at  home  in  the  green 
room  than  in  the  court-room.  Before  he  ran  awav 
from  home,  he  had  met  Mrs.  Hopkins,  an  actress, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Elizabeth  Arnold.  The  grace, 
vivacity,  and  beauty  of  the  piquant  little  actress  fired  the 
susceptible  heart  of  the  young  law  student ;  he  was  willing 
and  anxious  to  abandon  home,  position,  profession,  and 
everything,  to  live  only  for  his  love.  But  there  existed  a 
slight  impediment  to  his  desires  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
Hopkins,  who  played  the  important  role  of  husband  to 

*  William  Poe,  a  younger  brother  of  General  Poe,  removed  to  Georgia  shortly 
after  the  Revolution,  and  settled  in  Augusta.  He  married  the  sister  of  the  Hon. 
John  Forsyth.  His  son,  Hon.  Washington  Poe,  was  a  member  of  Congress 
from  Georgia. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  2^ 

his  lady  love.  While  David  Foe  was  still  "yawning  over 
Chitty,"  the  obliging  Mr.  Hopkins  died,  and  within  six 
months  the  long-separated  lovers  were  married.  Their 
marriage  took  place  in  the  spring  of  1806,  and  an  imme 
diate  estrangement  between  General  Poe  and  his  son  was 
the  result.  The  young  husband,  thus  left  to  his  own 
resources,  adopted  his  wife's  profession.  On  the  8th  of 
July,  1806,  the  Vauxhall  Garden  Theater  was  inaugurated 
in  New  York,  with  a  company  of  which  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Poe  were  members.  David  Poe  here  made  his  first 
appearance  as  Frank,  in  "  Fortune's  Frolic,"  while  Mrs. 
Poe  played  Priscilla,  the  Tom  Boy.  Ireland,  in  his 
''Records  of  the  New  York  Stage,"  says:  "The  lady 
was  young  and  pretty,  and  evinced  talent  both  as  a  singer 
and  actress ;  but  the  gentleman  was  literally  nothing." 
On  September  6,  1809,  the  Park  Theater,  New  York, 
opened  with  the  "Castle  Specter."  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poe 
made  their  first  appearance  at  this  establishment  as 
Hassan  and  Angela.  They  played  until  the  close  of  the 
season,  July  4,  1810.  In  the  winter  of  iSn,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Poe  were  performing  at  the  Richmond  Theater.  On 
the  night  of  the  26th  of  December,  the  theater  was  de 
stroyed  by  fire  ;  among  the  seventy  persons  who  per 
ished  in  this  awful  calamity  were  David  Poe  and  his  wife. 
He  had  escaped  from  the  burning  building,  but,  in  the 
confusion,  his  wife  became  separated  from  him  ;  return 
ing  to  look  for  her,  he  was  caught  by  the  falling  timbers, 
2 


2-6  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

and  died  in  a  vain  effort  to  save  his  wife,  whom  he  loved 
better  than  life. 

By  the  tragical  death  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poe,  their  three 
little  children  were  left  homeless  among  strangers.  The 
sympathy  of  the  kind  people  of  Richmond  was  deeply 
moved  by  the  condition  of  the  poor  orphans.  Mr.  John 
Allan,  a  wealthy  merchant  of  the  city,  adopted  Edgar, 
and  Mrs.  McKenzie,  of  Henrico  County,  Virginia, 
adopted  Rosalie,  who  was  the  youngest  of  the  children. 
Henry,  the  eldest,  was  taken  to  Baltimore  and  educated 
by  his  godfather,  Mr.  Henry  Didier,  whose  counting- 
room  he  subsequently  entered.  He  was  very  clever,  but 
wild  and  erratic.  Having  quarreled  with  his  patron, 
Henry  Poe  determined  to  go  to  Greece,  and  fight  for  the 
cause  to  which  the  death  of  Byron  had  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  the  world.  Young  Poe  arrived  in  time  to  parti 
cipate  in  the  last  battles  of  the  war.  On  the  I4th  of 
September,  1829,  the  Sultan  acknowledged  the  inde 
pendence  of  Greece,  an  event  which  was  brought  about 
by  the  combined  armies  of  England,  France,  and  Russia. 
Poe  accompanied  the  Russian  troops  to  St.  Petersburg, 
where  he  soon  got  into  trouble  and  into  prison.  He  was 
released  by  the  interposition  of  the  Honorable  Arthur 
Middleton,  the  American  Minister,  who  had  him  sent 
to  the  port  of  Riga,  and  placed  on  a  vessel  bound  for 
Baltimore.  Six  months  after  returning  home,  Henry 
Poe  died,  at  the  early  age.  of  twenty-six,  leaving  behind 
him  the  reputation  of  great  but  wasted  talents. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  2J 


CHAPTER   II. 

1809-1826. 

BIRTH  OF  EDGAR  POE. — ADOPTION  BY  MR.  ALLAN. — His  RESI 
DENCE  IN  SCOTLAND. — RETURN  HOME. — SCHOOL  DAYS  IN 
RICHMOND. — PROFESSOR  CLARKE'S  ACCOUNT.— COL.  PRES 
TON'S  REMINISCENCES. — POE'S  PRECOCIOUS  TALENTS. — "THE 
MOST  DISTINGUISHED  SCHOOL-BOY  IN  RICHMOND." — His 
YOUTHFUL  ACCOMPLISHMENTS,  ETC. 

)DGAR  POE,  the  second  son  of  David  Poe,  Jr., 
was  born  in  Boston  on  the  i9th  of  January, 
1809,  while  his  parents  were  filling  a  theatrical 
engagement  in  that  city.  When  he  was  five  weeks  old, 
they  returned  to  their  home  in  Baltimore  at  General  Poe's, 
who  had  long  before  been  reconciled  to  his  son.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Poe  always  carried  their  children  with  them  in 
their  professional  visits  through  the  country,  and  much 
of  Edgar's  infancy  was  passed  in  the  green-room.  His 
beauty  and  brightness  made  him  the  pet  of  the  actors  and 
of  all  who  saw  him.  The  death  of  his  parents,  and  his 
adoption  by  the  Allans,  wrought  a  complete  change  in 
the  circumstances  of  little  Edgar's  existence.  From  a 
life  of  poverty  he  passed  to  a  home  of  luxury.  In  Mrs. 


28  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

Allan,  he  found  the  love  of  a  mother  ;  in  Mr.  Allan,  the 
indulgence,  if  not  the  affection,  of  a  father.  The  former 
petted  and  caressed  the  beautiful  boy  ;  the  latter  spoiled 
him  by  showing  him  off  to  strangers,  by  gratifying  his 
every  whim,  by  pampering  his  childish  desires,  and  by 
encouraging  his  proud,  imperious  spirit. 

Mr.  Allan  was  accustomed  to  spend  the  summer  at  the 
White  Sulphur  Springs.  It  was  even  then  the  fashionable 
resort  of  all  that  was  best  and  brightest  in  the  fair  land 
of  the  South.  Summer  after  summer,  the  gayety  and 
fascination  of  Southern  life  and  Southern  manners  were 
transferred  to  the  magnificent  mountains  of  Virginia  ; 
thither  went  the  planter  from  South  Carolina,  Mississippi, 
and  Louisiana  ;  the  business  and  professional  man  from 
New  Orleans,  Charleston,  and  Richmond,  and  gentlemen 
of  fortune  from  the  whole  South,  taking  with  them  their 
charming  wives  and  daughters.  Edgar  accompanied 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan  to  the  White  Sulphur  in  the  summers 
of  1812,  '13,  '14,  and  '15.  There  are  several  persons 
now  living  in  Richmond,  who  remember  seeing  him 
there  in  those  years.  They  describe  him  as  a  lovely  little 
fellow,  with  dark  curls  and  brilliant  eyes,  dressed  like  a 
young -prince,  and  charming  every  one  by  his  childish 
grace,  vivacity,  and  cleverness.  His  disposition  was 
frank,  affectionate,  and  generous,  and  he  was  very  popu 
lar  with  his  young  companions. 

In  the  summer  of  1816,    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan  visited 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  29 

their  early  home  in  Scotland,  taking  Edga^jwth  them. 
He  was  left  with  a  maiden  sister  of  Mrs.  Allan's,  whp 
lived  in  tha^  country,  while  they  passed  two  years  in  Eng\ 
land  and  on  the  continent.  It  was  in  Scotland  that 
Edgar  Poe's  education  began,  and  during  those  two  years 
he  mastered  the  elementary  branches  of  English,  and 
learned  the  rudiments  of  Latin.  Even  in  "those  childish 
days,  he  possessed  a  remarkable  memory,  a  memory  which, 
like  Byron's,  was  "wax  to  receive  and  marble  to  retain." 

In  the  year  1818,  the  Allans  returned  to  their  home  in 
Richmond,  accompanied  by  Edgar,  who  was  now  a  rosy- 
faced  boy  in  his  ninth  year.  A  few  weeks  after  their 
return,  Mr.  Allan  placed  Edgar  Poe^rr-trre^cademy  of 
Professor  Joseph  H.  Clarke,  of  Trinity  College,  DiSjiuT 
who  kept  an  English  and  classical  school  m^Ri^lj^iond 
from  1816  to  1823.  Professor  Clarke,  who  is  now  living 
in  Baltimore,  at  the  venerable  age  of  eighty-six,  has  fur 
nished  me  with  the  following  highly  interesting  account 
of  Poe's  school-days  : 

"In  September,  1818,  Mr.  John  Allan,  a  wealthy 
Scotch  merchant,  residing  in  Richmond,  brought  to  my 
school  a  little  boy  between  eight  and  nine  years  old. 
'This  is  my  adopted  son,  Edgar  Poe,'  Mr.  Allan  said. 
'  His  parents  were  burned  to  death  when  the  theater  was 
destroyed.  The  little  fellow  has  recently  returned  from 
a  residence  of  two  years  in  Scotland,  where  he  has  been 
studying  English  and  Latin.  I  want  to  place  him  under 


3O  LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 

your  instruction/  I  asked  Edgar  about  his  Latin.  He 
said  he  had  studied  the  grammar  as  far  as  the  regular 
verbs.  He  declined  penna,  domus,  fruclus,  and  res.  I 
then  asked  him  whether  he  could  decline  the  adjective 
bonus.  I  was  struck  by  the  way  in  which  he  did  it :  he 
said  bonus,  a  good  man  ;  bona,  a  good  woman  ;  bonum,  a 
good  thing.  Edgar  Poe  was  five  years  in  my  school. 
During  that  time  he  read  Ovid,  Caesar,  Virgil,  Cicero, 
and  Horace  in  Latin,  and  Xenophon  and  Homer  in 
Greek.  He  showed  a  much  stronger  taste  for  classic 
poetry  than  he  did  for  classic  prose.  He  had  no  love  for  • 
mathematics,  but  his  poetical  compositions  were  univer 
sally  admitted  to  be  the  best  in  the  school.  While  the 
other  boys  wrote  mere  mechanical  verses,  Poe  wrote  genu 
ine  poetry  :  the  boy  was  a  born  poet.  As  a  scholar,  he 
was  ambitious  to  excel,  and  although  not  conspicuously 
studious,  he  always  acquitted  himself  well  in  his  classes. 
He  was  remarkable  for  self-respect,  without  haughtiness. 
In  his  demeanor  toward  his  playmates,  he  was  strictly  just 
and  correct,  which  made  him  a  general  favorite,  even  with 
those  who  were  older  than  he  was.  His  natural  and  pre 
dominant  passion  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  enthusiastic  ardor 
in  everything  he  undertook.  In  any  difference  of  opinion 
which  occurred  between  him  and  his  fellow  students,  he 
was  very  tenacious  in  maintaining  his  own  views,  and 
would  not  yield  until  his  judgment  was  convinced.  He 
had  a  sensitive  and  tender  heart,  and  would  do  anything 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  3! 

to  serve  a  friend.  His  nature  was  entirely  free  from  self 
ishness,  the  predominant  quality  of  boyhood. 

' '  Even  in  those  early  years,  Edgar  Poe  displayed  the 
germs  of  that  wonderfully  rich  and  splendid  imagination, 
which  has  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  the  purely 
imaginative  poets  of  the  world.  His  school-boy  verses 
were  written  con  amore,  and  not  as  mere  tasks.  When  he 
was  ten  years  old,  Mr.  Allan  came  to  me  one  day  with  a 
manuscript  volume  of  verses,  which  he  said  Edgar  had 
written,  and  which  the  little  fellow  wanted  to  have  pub 
lished.  He  asked  my  advice  upon  the  subject.  I  told 
him  that  Edgar  was  of  a  very  excitable  temperament,  that 
he  possessed  a  great  deal  of  self-esteem,  and  that  it  would 
be  very  injurious  to  the  boy  to  allow  him  to  be  fla-ttered 
and  talked  about  as  the  author  of  a  printed  bock  at 
his  age.  That  was  the  first  and  last  I  heard  of  it.  The 
verses,  I  remember,  consisted  chiefly  of  pieces  addressed  to 
the  different  little  girls  in  Richmond,  who  had  from  time 
to  time  engaged  his  youthful  affections.  [Some  of  these 
juvenile  productions  may  have  been  incorporated  in  Poe's 
first  volume  of  poems,  which  was  published  at  Boston,  in 
1824,  called,  "  'Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems. 
By  a  Virginian."  The  lines  "To  Helen,"  written  at  the 
early  age  of  thirteen,  first  appeared  in  this  volume.  The 
classic  beauty  of  this  piece  placed  it  among  the  most  ex 
traordinary  juvenile  poems  in  all  literature.] 

"To  the  best  of  my  recollection,    the  names   of  his 


32  LIFE    OF   EDGAR    A.  POE. 

classmates  were  Robert  Mayo,  now  a  conspicuous  lawyer 
in  Virginia  ;  Channing  Moore  (son  of  Bishop  Moore,  of 
Virginia),  now  an  Episcopal  clergyman  in  New  York  ; 
Peter  V.  Daniel,  Jr. ;  John  Forbes;  Nathaniel  and  William 
Howard  ;  John  Brokenborough,  son  of  Judge  B. ;  and  Col 
onel  John  S.  L.  Preston,  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute.'' 
Colonel  Preston  furnishes  the  following  additional  par 
ticulars  of  Poe's  school-days  in  Richmond  :  "  As  a  scholar, 
Poe  was  distinguished  specially  in  Latin  and  French.  In 
the  former  he  was  equaled,  but  not  surpassed,  by  Nathan 
iel  Howard,  his  friend  and  rival  ;  but  in  poetical  com 
position,  Poe  was  facile  princeps.  I  was  the  boy  confidant 
of  the  boy  poet,  whose  verses  excited  my  enthusiastic  ad 
miration.  While  his  many  accomplishments  captivated 
my  young  heart,  he  also  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  sub 
mitted  his  juvenile  poems  to  me,  and  condescended  to  ask 
my  critical  opinion  of  them,  although  he  was  several  years 
my  senior.  Poe  was  the  swiftest  runner,  the  best  boxer, 
and  the  most  daring  swimmer  at  Clarke's  school.  Indeed, 
his  swimming  feats  at  the  Great  Falls  of  the  James  River 
were  not  surpassed  by  the  more  celebrated  feat  of  Byron 
in  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abydos.  Edgar  Poe  was  a 
generous,  free-hearted  boy,  kind  to  his  companions,  and 
always  ready  to  assist  them  with  his  hand  and  head  ;  but 
fierce  in  his  resentments,  and  eager  for  distinction."  The 
Nathaniel  Howard  alluded  to  by  Colonel  Preston  was  af 
terward  one  of  the  ripest  scholars  and  most  profound  law- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  33 

yers  of  Virginia.    He  was  killed  at  the  fall  of  the  Capitol  in 
Richmond,  April,  1870. 

At  the  close  of  the  summer  session  of  1823,  Professor 
Clarke  removed  from  Richmond.  Upon  this  occasion, 
young  Howard  wrote  a  Latin  ode,  after  the  style  of  the 
"0  jam  Satis"  of  Horace;  while  Edgar  Poe  addressed 
the  retiring  professor  in  English  verse,  expressing  his  feel 
ings  in  the  true  language  of  poetry. 

After  the  departure  of  Professor  Clarke  from  Richmond, 
Mr.  William  Burke  took  his  school  and  most  of  his  schol 
ars,  and  among  them  Edgar  Poe.  Mr.  Andrew  Johnston, 
in  a  letter  dated  Richmond,  April  29,  1876,  gives  the  fol 
lowing  particulars  of  Poe  at  that  school  : 

"I  went  to  school  at  Mr.  Burke's  on  the  ist  of  Octo 
ber,  1823,  and  found  Edgar  A.  Poe  there.  I  knew  him 
before,  but  not  well,  there  being  two,  if  not  three,  years 
difference  in  our  ages.  We  went  to  school  together  all 
through  1824  and  the  early  part  of  1825.  Some  time  in 
the  latter  year  (I  cannot  recollect  at  what  time  exactly) 
he  left  the  school.  For  a  considerable  part  of  the  time, 
Poe  was  in  the  same  class  with  Colonel  Joseph  Selden, 
Dr.  William  H.  Howard  (I  give  their  subsequent  titles), 
Mr.  Miles  C.  Selden,  and  myself.  Poe  was  a  much  more 
advanced  scholar  than  any  of  us ;  but  there  was  no  other 
class  for  him — that  being  the  highest — and  he  had  no 
thing  to  do,  or  but  little,  to  keep  his  headship  of  the 
class.  I  dare  say  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  was  fond  of 
2* 


34  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A,  POE. 

desultory  reading,  and  even  then  wrote  verses,  very  clever 
for  a  boy  of  his  years,  and  sometimes  satirical.  We  all 
recognized  and  admired  his  great  and  varied  talents,  and 
were  proud  of  him  as  the  most  distinguished  school-boy 
of  the  town.  At  that  time,  Poe  was  slight  in  person  and 
figure,  but  well  made,  active,  sinewy,  and  graceful.  In 
athletic  exercises  he  was  foremost :  especially,  he  was  the 
best,  the  most  daring,  and  most  enduring  swimmer  that 
I  ever  saw  in  the  water.  When  about  sixteen  year's  old, 
he  performed  his  well-known  feat  of  swimming  from 
Richmond  to  Warwick,  a  distance  of  five  or  six  miles. 
He  was  accompanied  by  two  boats,  and  it  took  him  sev 
eral  hours  to  accomplish  the  task,  the  tide  changing 
during  the  time.  In  dress  he  was  neat  but  not  foppish. 
His  disposition  was  amiable,  and  his  manners  pleasant 
and  courteous." 

After  leaving  Burke's  school,  in  March,  1825,  Mr.  Allan 
placed  Edgar  Poe  under  the  best  private  tutors,  in  order 
to  prepare  him  for  college.  He  devoted  himself  almost 
exclusively  to  the  classics,  modern  languages,  and  belles- 
lettres.  He  also  carefully  read  the  best  English  authors 
in  prose  and  poetry.  Richmond,  fifty  years  since,  was 
celebrated  for  its  polished  society.  In  this  society,  Edgar 
Poe  was  early  welcome — a  boy  in  years,  but  a  man  in 
mind  and  manners.  The  refined  grace  and  courtesy 
toward  women  that  ever  distinguished  him  may  have 
been  thus  acquired  in  the  best  society  of  the  polite  little 
capital  of  Virginia. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  35 


CHAPTER   III. 
1827-1831. 

ENTERS  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA. — His  LIFE  THERE. — 
STATEMENT  OF  MR.  WERTENBAKER. — A  SUCCESSFUL  STU 
DENT. — PUBLISHES  "AL  AARAAF,  TAMERLANE,  AND  MINOR 
POEMS." — FIRST  MEETS  MRS.  CLEMM  AND  VIRGINIA. — POE 
AT  WEST  POINT. 

]R.  ALLAN  certainly  gave  Edgar  Poe  the  advan 
tages  of  a  first-rate  education.  The  petted  and 
precocious  boy  was  now  an  accomplished  youth 
of  seventeen,  fully  prepared  to  enter  college.  The  Uni 
versity  of  Virginia — which,  with  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence,  stand  as  enduring  monuments  of  the  genius 
and  patriotism  of  Thomas  Jefferson — was  opened  for  the 
reception  of  students  in  the  spring  of  1825.  The  new 
seat  of  learning  soon  became  the  favorite  resort  of  the 
most  distinguished  young  men  of  Virginia,  Maryland, 
and  other  Southern  States.  Mr.  Allan  determined  to 
send  Edgar  to  the  University  of  Virginia.  William  Wer- 
tenbaker,  Esq.,  the  Librarian  of  the  University  (to  which 
position  he  was  appointed  by  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  1825),  has 


30  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

furnished  me  with  an  interesting  account  of  Foe's  college 
career,  from  which  I  make  the  following  extracts  : 

"  Edgar  A.  Poe  entered  the  University  of  Virginia,  Feb 
ruary  ist,  1826,  and  remained  until  the  I5th  of  December 
of  the  same  year.  He  entered  the  schools  of  ancient 
and  modern  languages,  attending  the  lectures  on  Latin, 
Greek,  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian.  I  was  myself  a 
member  of  the  last  three  classes,  and  can  testify  that  he 
was  regular  in  attendance,  and  a  very  successful  student, 
having  obtained  distinction  at  the  final  examination  in 
Latin  and  French.  This  was  at  that  time  the  highest 
honor  a  student  could  obtain,  the  present  regulations  in 
regard  to  degrees  not  having  been  then  adopted.  Under 
existing  regulations,  Mr.  Poe  would  have  graduated  in  the 
two  languages  above  mentioned,  and  have  been  en  tilled 
to  diplomas. 

"As  Librarian,  I  had  frequent  official  intercourse  with 
Mr.  Poe.  The  following  are  the  names  of  some  of 
the  books  which  he  borrowed  from  the  college  library  : 
'  Histoire  Ancienne,'  par  Eollin  ;  'Histoire  Romaine;' 
Robertson's  '  America  ; '  Marshall's  '  Life  of  Wash 
ington  ;'  'Histoire  Particuliere "  de  Voltaire;  Dufief's 
'  Nature  Displayed.'  It  will  gratify  the  many  admirers 
of  Poe  to  know  that  his  works  are  more  in  demand  and 
more  read  than  those  of  any  other  author,  American  or 
foreign,  now  in  the  library. 

"  Mr.  Poe   was    certainly    not    habitually    intemperate 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  37 

during  the  time  he  was  at  the  university.  I  often  saw 
him  in  the  lecture-room  and  in  the  library,  but  never 
in  the  slightest  degree  under  the  influence  of  intoxicating 
liquors.  Among  the  professors  he  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  sober,  quiet,  and  orderly  young  man.  To  them 
and  to  the  officers,  his  deportment  was  universally  that 
of  an  intelligent  and  polished  gentleman.  The  records  of 
the  university,  of  which  I  was  then,  and  am  still,  the  cus 
todian,  attest  that,  at  no  time  during  the  session,  did  he 
fall  under  the  censure  of  the  Faculty. 

"I  remember  spending  a  pleasant  hour  in  Mr.  Foe's 
room  one  cold  night  in  December,  a  short  time  before  he 
left  the  university.  On  this  occasion,  he  spoke  with  re 
gret  of  the  large  amount  of  money  he  had  wasted,  and 
of  the  debts  he  had  contracted  during  the  session.  If 
my  memory  is  not  at  fault,  he  estimated  his  indebtedness 
at  two  thousand  dollars,  and  though  they  were  gaming 
debts,  he  was  earnest  and  emphatic  in  the  declaration  that 
he  was  bound  by  honor  to  pay,  at  the  earliest  opportunity, 
every  cent  of  them." 

The  room-mate  and  most  intimate  friend  of  Poe  at  the 
university  was  the  late  Judge  Thomas  S.  Gholson,  of 
Petersburg,  Va.  Among  his  other  classmates  were  the 
Hon.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  formerly  United  States  Senator, 
and  now  Treasurer  of  Virginia  ;  General  George  Mason 
Graham/  of  King  George  County,  Va.  ;  Judge  William 
Loving,  of  Louisville,  Ky ;  Dr.  Orlando  Fairfax,  of  Rich- 


38  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

mond,  Va. ;  William  M.  Burwell,  of  New  Orleans;  George 
H.  Hoffman,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia  ;  Philip  St.  George 
Ambler,  Esq.,  of  Amherst  County,  Va.  ;  General  John  S. 
Preston,  of  South  Carolina  ;  Judge  Henry  Shackleford,  of 
Culpepper  County,  Va. ;  Ex-Governor  Thomas  Swarm,  of 
Maryland  ;  the  late  Judge  Z.  Collins  Lee,  of  Baltimore ; 
Dr.  William  A  Spotswood,  of  Virginia,  and  a  score  of 
others  still  living. 

Poe  was  liberally  supplied  with  money  while  at  the 
university,  but  he  had  never  been  taught  its  value,  and, 
consequently,  he  spent  it  recklessly  and  extravagantly. 
Goldsmith,  whose  heart  was  "open  as  day  to  melting 
charity,"  said  of  himself  that  he  had  been  taught  to  give 
away  thousands  before  he  had  learned  to  earn  hundreds. 
Poe  had  been  allowed — almost  encouraged — to  throw 
away  thousands  before  he  was  eighteen.  When  a  mere 
boy,  his  little  purse  was  filled  with  gold  dollars,  while  the 
other  boys  were  glad  to  have  silver  quarters. 

In  the  winter  of  1826-7,  Poe  returned  to  Richmond 
from  the  university,  bringing  with  him  the  reputation  of 
great  scholarship  and  great  extravagance.  The  latter  rep 
utation  was  brilliantly  maintained,  for  we  hear  of  cham 
pagne  suppers,  and  elegant  suits  of  clothes  in  abund 
ance.  Edgar  Poe  was,  at  this  time,  the  gayest,  hand 
somest,  and  most  dashing  young  man  in  Richmond  ;  the 
peer  and  companion  of  the  Mayos,  Randolphs,  Prestons, 
and  other  aristocratic  young  men  of  Virginia.  His 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  39 

distinguished  talents,  fascinating  conversation,  polished 
manners,  and  presumptive  wealth  (for  Mr.  Allan's  for 
tune  had  been  recently  increased  by  the  death  of  a  wealthy 
uncle,  and  Edgar  Foe  was  to  be  the  heir  of  his  adopted 
father),  made  him  a  welcome  visitor  in  the  best  society  of 
Richmond. 

But  Poe's  time  was  not  wholly  passed  in  the  gay  pleas 
ures  of  fashionable  life.  He  was  ambitious,  and  looked 
to  something  higher,  nobler,  than  mere  social  distinction. 
He  studied  much  and  read  more  ;  nor  was  he  satisfied 
with  being  only  an  admirer  of  the  writings  of  others.  He 
determined  to  be  himself  a  writer — a  poet ;  to  place  his 
name  in  the  literature  of  his  country — in  the  literature  of 
the  world.  Early  in  1829  we  find  Poe  in  Baltimore,  with 
a  manuscript  volume  of  verses,  which  in  a  few  months 
was  published  in  a  thin  octavo,  bound  in  boards,  crim 
son  sprinkled,  with  yellow  linen  back.  The  title  of  the 
book  was,  "  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems. 
By  Edgar  A.  Poe.  Baltimore :  Hatch  &  Dunning.  1829."  * 
The  Peabody  Library  of  Baltimore  has  a  copy  of  this 
rare  volume,  which  I  have  carefully  examined.  It  num 
bers  seventy-one  pages.  On  the  sixth  page  is  the  Dedica 
tion  :  "  Who  drinks  the  deepest?  Here's  to  him."  "  Al 
Aaraaf"  is  printed  the  same  as  now,  except  eight  unim- 

*  It  was  printed  by  Matchett  &  Woods,  who  have  printed  the  Baltimore  City 
Directory  for  nearly  half  a  century.  Hatch  &  Dunning  were  two  young  men 
from  New  York  who  started  in  Baltimore  with  a  bmall  capital.  After  a  year  or 
two  they  disappeared. 


4O  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

portant  verbal  changes.  "  Tamerlane,"  which  is  dedicated 
to  John  Neal,  is  preceded  by  an  advertisement,  as  follows  : 
"This  poem  was  printed  for  publication  in  Boston,  in  the 
year  1827,  but  suppressed  through  circumstances  of  a 
private  "nature."  There  is  only  one  word  changed  in  the 
whole  poem.  After  "Tamerlane"  follow  nine  miscel 
laneous  poems,  all  of  which,  with  the  "exception  of  the 
first  and  part  of  the  eighth,  are  in  the  last  edition  of  Foe's 
works.  The  first  of  these  miscellaneous  poems  consists 

of  four  stanzas,  and  is  headed  "To  ."  It  has  never 

been  reprinted  in  full,  but  the  third  stanza  contains  the 
germ  of  "  A  Dream  within  a  Dream." 

I  have  failed  to  discover  that  this  volume  attracted  any 
attention  either  in  Baltimore  or  elsewhere,  although  it 
will  scarcely  be  questioned  that  it  contained  thoughts 
and  sentiments  and  verses  which  are  far  superior  to  any 
thing  in  Byron's  early  poems.  Indeed,  the  delicate,  airy 
grace  and  musical  rhythm  of  a  portion  of  "Al  Aaraaf" 
give  a  bright  promise  o£ that  wonderful  metrical  sweetness 
which  pre-eminently  distinguishes  Poe's  poetry. 

But  if  Edgar  Poe  made  neither  money  nor  fame  by  this 
little  volume,  it  resulted  in  an  acquaintance,  a  friendship, 
and  a  love,  which  contributed  more  to  his  happiness  than 
either  money  or  fame  could  have  done.  It  was  during 
this  visit  to  Baltimore  that  he  saw,  for  the  first  time  since 
his  infancy,  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Maria  Clemm,  who  was  to  be 
his  devoted  friend  through  life,  and  his  most  enthusiastic 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    FOE.  4! 


defender  after  his  death.  Mrs.  Clemm  —  the  daughter  of 
General  Poe,  who  had  spent  his  fortune  in  the  cause  of 
American  Independence,  and  the  wife  of  William  Clemm, 
who  had  bravely  fought  for  his  city,  State,  and  country  — 
was  compelled  to  earn  a  living  by  teaching  school.  It 
was  at  this  time,  also,  that  Edgar  Poe  first  saw  his  cousin, 
Virginia  Clemm,  a  lovely,  delicate  girl  of  seven  ;  "  the  fair 
and  gentle  young  Eulalie,  who  became  hi  8  l^ 


—  his  Ligeia,  his  beautiful  one  —  his  Annabel  T<ppi 

he  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than   love,"  —  his  lost 

Lenore-L 

It  is  not  to  be  presumed  that  Edgar  Poe  had  any  inten 
tion  of  adopting  the  life  of  a  professional  author  when  he 
published  "  Al  Aaraaf."  He  was,  at  that  time,  the  heir 
presumptive  of  Mr.  Allan's  fortune  —  thirty  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year  —  with  every  present  want  gratified,  and  his  future 
apparently  secure.  But,  even  while  on  this  visit  to  Balti 
more,  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  all  his  fair  prospects 
was  approaching.  Toward  the  end  of  February  he  was 
summoned  back  to  Richmond,  by  the  alarming  illness  of 
Mrs.  Allan.  He  hastened  to  obey  the  sad  summons,  for 
he  loved  his  adopted  mother  with  all  the  warmth  of  his  af 
fectionate  nature.  But,  alas  !  he  was  never  again  to  see  that 
kind,  motherly  face  ;  never  again  to  hear  that  sweet,  gentle 
voice.  Communication,  in  those  days,  between  Baltimore 
and  Richmond  was  slow,  and  before  he  arrived,  Mrs. 
Allan  was  dead  and  buried.  Edgar  felt  keenly  the  loss  of 


42  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

his  earliest  friend.       He  mourned  her  long  and  sorrow 
fully. 

The  death  of  Mrs.  Allan  caused  no  immediate  change 
in  Foe's  life;  Mr.  Allan  continued  his  friend,  so  far  as 
food,  clothing,  and  shelter  went.  But  he  missed  that 
tender  solicitude,  that  affectionate  interest,  which  Mrs. 
Allan  was  ever  ready  to  bestow. 

When  Edgar  Poe  had  reached  his  twenty-first  year,  Mr. 
Allan — who  very  properly  thought  that  a  young  man,  how 
ever  great  his  expectations  might  be,  should  adopt  a  pro 
fession — had  a  serious  talk  with  him  upon  this  important 
subject.  Poe  expressed  a  distaste  both  for  the  dry  drudg 
ery  of  the  law,  and  for  the  laborious  life  of  a  physician. 
The  gay,  dashing,  daring  life  of  a  soldier  seemed  to  pos 
sess  a  peculiar  fascination  for  the  high-spirited,  chivalrous 
youth,  and  he  told  Mr,  Allan  that,  of  all  the  professions, 
he  preferred  the  army.  Mr.  Allan  was  delighted  at  his 
choice,  and  immediately  went  to  work  to  secure  his  ap 
pointment  to  West  Point.  Recommended  by  Chief  Jus 
tice  Marshall,  John  Randolph,  General  Scott,  and  other 
influential  friends,  the  appointment  was  easily  obtained. 
A  handsome  outfit  was  furnished  by  Mr.  Allan,  and  on 
the  ist  of  July,  1830,  Edgar  A.  Poe  entered  West  Point 
as  a  cadet.  He  was  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  and  gifted, 
but  the  least  creditable  cadet  that  ever  entered  the  Mili 
tary  Academy.  He  was  in  the  very  first  bloom  of  that 
remarkable  beauty  of  face  and  form,  which  neither  study, 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  43 

nor  trouble,  nor  poverty,  nor  sorrow  ever  destroyed.  Dark, 
hyacinthine  hair  fell  in  graceful  curls  over  his  magnifi 
cent  forehead,  beneath  which  shone  the  most  beautiful, 
the  most  glorious  of  mortal  eyes.  His  figure  was  slight, 
but  elegantly  proportioned  ;  his  bearing  was  proud  and 
fearless. 

The  young  cadet  soon  discovered  that  the  life  of  a 
soldier  was  not  all  so  couleur  de  rose  as  his  bright  fancy  had 
pictured  it.  The  severe  studies,  the  severe  discipline,  the 
morning  drill,  the  evening  parade,  the  guard  duty,  were 
each  and  all  distasteful  to  the  young  poet,  whose  heart 
was  glowing  with  high  hopes,  whose  soul  was  full  of  a 
noble  ambition.  He  turned  with  delight  from  military 
tactics  to  peruse  the  tuneful  pages  of  Virgil ;  he  neglected 
mathematics  for  the  fascinating  essays  of  Macaulay,  which 
were  just  then  beginning  to  charm  the  world  ;  he  escaped 
from  the  evening  parade  to  wander  along  the  romantic 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  meditating  his  musical  "  Israfel," 
and,  perhaps,  planning  "  Ligeia  ;  or,  the  Fall  of  the  House 
of  Usher." 

The  result  of  his  study  and  meditation  appeared  in  the 
winter  of  1831,  when  he  published,  under  the  title  of 
"Poems,  by  Edgar  A.  Poe,"  seven  new  poems,  together 
with  "AlAaraaf,"  and  "Tamerlane,"  from  the  edition 
of  1829,  omitting  all  the  others.  These  seven  new  poems 
consisted  of  the  exquisite  lines  "To  Helen,"  "Israfel," 
"The  Doomed  City"  (afterward  improved,  and  called 


44  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

"The  City  in  the  Sea"),  "  Fairyland"  (which  retains  its 
name  only),  "Irene"  (afterward  remodeled  into  "The 
Sleeper"),  "A  Paean"  (four  verses  of  which  were  incor 
porated  in  "  Lenore"),  and  "The  Valley  of  Nis"("  The 
Valley  of.  Unrest  ").  The  book  was  dedicated  -to  the 
United  States  Corps  of  Cadets,  an  honor  which  the  cadets 
did  not  deserve,  for  they  "  considered  the  verses  ridicu 
lous  doggerel."  The  world  has  pronounced  a  different 
verdict. 

After  Poe  had  been  at  West  Point  six  months,  the  rigid 
rules  became  so  intolerable  that  he  asked  permission  of 
Mr.  Allan  to  resign.  This  was  peremptorily  refused. 
Within  a  year  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Allan 
married  Louise  Gabrielle  Patterson,  of  New  Jersey,  and, 
a  son  being  born,*  Edgar  Poe  was  no  longer  the  heir  of 
the  five  thousand  acres  of  land  in  Goochland  County,  Vir 
ginia,  of  hundreds  of  slaves,  of  real  estate  in  Richmond, 
of  bank  and  State  stock,  the  whole  amounting  to  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  In  money  matters,  Mr.  Allan 


*  Mr.  Allan  had  three  children  by  his  second  wife  :  John,  the  eldest,  married 
Henrietta  Hoffman,  the  only  child  of  William  Henry  Hoffman,  Esq.,  of  Balti 
more.  At  the  commencement  of  the  late  civil  war,  John  Allan  entered  the  Con 
federate  Army,  and  was  killed  at  Gettysburg,  July  3,  1863,  while  commanding  a 
Virginia  regiment.  The  second  son,  William,  married  his  brother's  widow  ;  he 
died  in  1868,  and  his  wife  died  in  1870.  Mrs.  Henrietta  Allan  had  two  children 
by  her  first  husband,  Hoffman  and  Louise  Gabrielle.  They  are  living  with 
their  grandmother  in  Richmond.  Patterson  Allan,  the  third  son,  married  a  lady 
of  Cincinnati,  who  was  banished  from  Richmond,  by  Jefferson  Davis,  as  a  Union 
spy. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  45 

had  always  treated  his  adopted  son  with  the  utmost  gen 
erosity.  But  he  had^  now  other  claimants  to  his  fortune, 
and  he  wished  to  give  Edgar  Poe  an  honorable  profession, 
which  would  afford  him  a  regular  support  for  life.  Hence 
his  refusal  to  allow  him  to  leave  West  Point — consent  of 
father  or  guardian  being  required  before  a  cadet  could 
resign.  But  Poe  was  determined  to  get  away  from  West 
Point,  with  or  without  Mr.  Allan's  consent.  So  he  com 
menced  a  deliberate  and  systematic  neglect  of  duty  and 
disobedience  of  rules  :  he  cut  his  classes,  shirked  the 
drill,  and  refused  to  do  guard  duty.  The  desired  result 
followed  ;  on  the  yth  of  January,  1831,  Edgar  A.  Poe 
was  brought  before  a  general  court-martial,  under  the 
charge  of  "gross  neglect  of  all  duty,  and  disobedience  of 
orders."  The  accused  promptly  pleaded  "Guilty"  and, 
to  his  great  delight,  was  sentenced  "to  be  dismissed  the  ser 
vice  of  the  United  States."  The  sentence  was  duly  approved 
at  the  War  Department,  and  carried  into  effect  March  6, 
1831. 

Several  of  Poe's  cotemporaries  at  West  Point  after 
ward  distinguished  themselves.  Among  others,  Colonel 
Henry  Clay,  Jr.,  who  fell,  gallantly  fighting,  at  Buena 
Vista;  Major-General  A.  A.  Humphreys,  Chief  of  Engi 
neers,  U.  S.  A.;  Major-General  William  H.  Emory,  of 
Maryland  ;  General  Randolph  B.  Marcy,  of  Massachu 
setts  ;  General  Francis  H?  Smith,  President  of  the  Vir 
ginia  Military  Institute  ;  General  Humphrey  Marshall, 


46  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

of  Kentucky  ;  Major-General  John  G.  Barnard,  of  Mas 
sachusetts  ;  the  late  General  Tench.  Tilghman,  President 
of  the  Maryland  Society  of  the  Cincinnati ;  Colonel  Lu 
cius  Bellinger  Northrop,  of  South  Carolina,  Commissary 
General  of  the  late  Confederate  Army  ;  Colonel  Bliss, 
afterward  private  secretary  of  President  Taylor  ;  Colonel 
George  B.  Crittenden,  of  Kentucky  ;v  Colonel  George  H. 
Ringgold,  of  Maryland  ;  Major  Philip  M.  Barbour,  of 
Kentucky,  killed  at  the  battle  of  Monterey,  and  several 
others. 


LIFE    OF   EDGAR    A.  POE.  47 


CHAPTER   IV. 

1831-1833. 

POE  LEAVES  MR.  ALLAN'S  HOUSE. — REMOVES  TO  BALTIMORE. — 
MRS.  CLEMM  RECEIVES  HIM. — VIRGINIA,  His  PUPIL.— His 
STUDIES.— MODE  OF  LIFE.— ADOPTS  THE  LITERARY  PRO 
FESSION.— TALES  OF  THE  FOLIO  CLUB. — GAINS  THE  PRIZE 
OFFERED  BY  The  Saturday  Visitor. 

|R.  ALLAN  received  Edgar  Poe  very  coldly  when 
he  returned  to  Richmond  from  West  Point. 
He  was  disappointed  and  disgusted  that  the 
young  man's  military  career  had  terminated  so  unfortu 
nately  ;  he  was  exasperated  that  the  wayward  youth  had 
thrown  away  so  fine  an  opportunity  of  establishing  him 
self  for  life.  So  no  feast  was  prepared,  no  fatted  calf  was 
killed,  no  friends  were  gathered  to  welcome  the  prodigal 
home.  Mr.  Allan  gave  him  a  home,  indeed  ;  but  it  was 
no  longer  the  home  of  his  infancy — no  longer  the  home 
of  his  happy  boyhood,  and  of  his  brilliant  youth.  He 
was  tolerated,  that  is  all.  No  longer  the  petted  child, 
whose  word  was  law  ;  no  longer  the  presumptive  heir  of 
half  a  million  ;  but  an  unwelcome  guest,  whose  presence 
was  deemed  an  intrusion.  The  haughty  spirit  of  Edgar 


48  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

Poe  felt  keenly  the  great  change ;  to  be  scarcely  tolerated 
in  the  house  where  he  had  once  reigned  supreme  was 
agony  to  his  proud,  sensitive  nature.  This  was  the  be 
ginning  of  that  "intolerable  sorrow,"  which  crushed, 
conquered,  and  finally  broke  his  brave,  noble  heart. 
This  was  the  commencement  of  that  "  unmerciful  dis 
aster  "  which  "  followed  fast  and  followed  faster,"  until 
"  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own/'  and  the  "  dirges 
of  his  Hope"  sang  forever  the  sad  refrain  of  "never 
more." 

The  Allan  family  have  never  vouchsafed  any  explana 
tion  of  the  cause  of  the  final  separation  between  Mr. 
Allan  and  Edgar  Poe.  If  the  latter  had  been  in  fault,  is 
it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  such  a  fact  would  have 
been  long  since  published  to  the  world  ?  For  nearly 
twenty  years  Edgar  had  been  the  idolized  child  of  the 
house  ;  caressed  by  Mrs.  Allan,  indulged  by  Mr.  Allan. 
Mrs.  Allan  dies,  Edgar  goes  to  West  Point ;  he  returns, 
and  finds  all  things  changed  in  the  old  Fifth  Street  house. 
Another  Mrs.  Allan  is  there.  We  all  know  the  influence 
of  a  second  wife  upon  a  fond,  doting  old  husband.  In 
this  case  the  influence  of  the  beautiful  young  wife  was 
immediate  and  permanent.  It  began  with  the  marriage, 
and  ended  only  with  the  death  of  Mr.  Allan.  Edgar 
Poe  felt  its  effects  more  than  any  one  else.  His  extrav 
agance  at  the  university  was  forgiven,  but  his  escapade  at 
West  Point  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  Why  ?  Because  the 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  49 

first  Mrs.  Allan  was  his  friend,  and  the  second  Mrs.  Allan 
was  not.  She,  very  naturally,  wanted  the  Allan  money 
for  the  Allan  children,  who  now  began  to  make  their  an 
nual  appearance.  Mrs.  Susan  Archer  von  Weiss,  in  a 
letter  before  me,  dated  Richmond,  Virginia,  June  6th. 
1876,  after  saying  she  was  a  "confidant  of  Mr.  Poe's," 
states  that  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  between  Allan  and  Poe 
was  "very  simple  and  very  natural  under  the  circum 
stances — human  nature  considered — and  completely  ex 
onerates  Mr.  Poe  from  ingratitude  to  his  adopted  father" 

Whatever  was  the  cause,  the  result  was  that,  a  few 
months  after  his  return  from  West  Point,  Edgar  Poe 
left  Mr.  Allan's  house  forever.  Writing  long  years  after 
to  one  who  possessed  his  entire  confidence,  he  said  : 
"  By  the  God  who  reigns  in  heaven,  I  swear  to  you  that 
my  soul  is  incapable  of  dishonor.  I  can  call  to  mind  no 
act  of  my  life  which  would  bring  a  blush  to  my  cheek  or 
to  yours.  If  I  have  erred  at  all,  in  this  regard,  it  has 
been  on  the  side  of  what  the  world  would  call  a  Quixotic 
sense  of  the  honorable — of  the  chivalrous.  The  indul 
gence  of  this  sense  has  been  the  true  voluptuousness  of 
my  life.  It  was  for  this  species  of  luxury  that  in  early 
youth  I  deliberately  threw  away  from  me  a  large  fortune, 
rather  than  endurt  a  trivial  wrong." 

Like  Adam,  when  expelled  from  Paradise,  Edgar  Poe 
(though  his  late  home  had  been  for  some  time  anything 
but  a  Paradise  to  him)  had  now  all  the  world  before  him 
3 


5O  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

where  to  choose  his  place  of  rest.  Remembering  the 
affectionate  interest  which  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Clemm,  had 
manifested  toward  him  when  he  met  her  in  1829,  Edgar 
went  to  Baltimore,  and  sought  out  this,  his  nearest  rela 
tive.  Mrs.  Clemm  was  poor,  but  poor  as  she  was,  she 
gave  her  "  Eddie  "  (as  she  always  called  him)  a  home — 
a  home  humble,  indeed,  in  a  worfdly  sense,  but  rich  in 
love.  Soon  after  his  removal  to  Baltimore,  in  the  early 
summer  of  1831,  Poe,  not  wishing  to  be  dependent  upon 
his  aunt,  sought  diligently  for  some  employment  by  which 
he  could  earn  a  living.  Dr.  N.  C.  Brooks  (who  was,  in 
1838-9,  editor  of  the  Baltimore  Museum,  a  magazine  in 
which  appeared  some  of  Poe's  best  tales)  informed  me 
that  about  this  time  (1831),  Edgar  Poe  applied  for  a  posi 
tion  in  his  school,  then  recently  started  at  Reisterstown, 
in  Baltimore  County.  Dr.  Brooks  regretted  there  was 
no  vacancy,  for  he  knew  that  Poe  was  an  accomplished 
scholar. 

In  1831-2,  Mrs.  Clemm  lived  on  Cove  (now  Fremont) 
Street.  An  intimate  friend  of  Poe's*  has  furnished  an  inter 
esting  description  of  his  life  and  studies  at  this  time  ;  his 
dress,  personal  appearance,  habits,  conversation,  are  all 
minutely  given.  This  gentleman  was  in  the  habit  of  see 
ing  Poe  daily,  for  weeks  at  a  time.  They  took  long  and 
frequent  walks  together  in  the  beautiful,  undulating  country 

*  L.  A.  Wilmer,  author  of  "The  Quacks  of  Helicon,"  etc. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  51 

around  Baltimore.  Their  conversation  was  generally  upon 
literary  topics,  and  Poe  expressed  his  opinion  freely  and 
forcibly  upon  all  writers,  from  Shakespeare  down  to  the  last 
aspirant  for  poetical  fame.  He  never  could  be  made  to 
bow  to  the  world's  opinion.  The  very  fact  that  an  author 
possessed  the  world's  good  opinion  was  sufficient  for  him 
to  condemn  that  author.  He  knew  that  a  few  self-ap 
pointed  critics  formed  what  is  called  the  world's  opinion. 
He  knew  that  these  would-be  critics  praised  Wordsworth 
and  ridiculed  Keats.  Poe  frankly  confessed  that  he  had 
"no  faith  in  Wordsworth;"  he  spoke  with  "reverence 
of  Coleridge's  towering  intellect  and  gigantic  power ; " 
pronounced  Byron's  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Review 
ers"  a  "failure;"  called  Dr.  Johnson  "scurrilous,"  and 
was  one  of  the  earliest  admirers  of  Tennyson,  at  the  time 
when  the  English  reviewers  were  neglecting  him  and  prais 
ing  the  Rev.  George  Croly. 

At  this  time,  Edgar  Poe  was  slender,  but  graceful  in 
person ;  his  hands  and  feet  were  as  beautiful  as  a  woman's. 
His  dress  was  faultlessly  neat ;  fashionable,  but  not  fop 
pish.  His  disposition  was  affectionate,  and  he  was  ten 
derly  devoted  to  his  aunt  and  cousin.  Virginia  Clemm 
was  now  an  exquisitely  beautiful  girl  ten  years  old,  the 
pupil,  companion,  and  pet  of  her  cousin  Edgar.  One 
day,  Edgar,  Virginia,  and  Mr.  Wilmer  were  walking  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Baltimore,  when  they  happened  to 
approach  a  grave-yard,  where  a  funeral  was  in  progress. 


52  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

Curiosity  attracted  them  to  the  side  of  the  grave,  where 
they  stood  among  those  who  had  accompanied  the  body 
to  the  cemetery.  Virginia's  sensitive  heart  was  so  touched 
by  the  grief  of  the  stricken  mourners,  that  she  mingled 
her  tears  with  theirs.  Her  emotion  communicated  itself 
to  Edgar,  and  if  his  cruel  defamers  had  seen  him,  at  that 
moment,  weeping  by  a  stranger's  grave,  they  would  not 
have  said  of  him  that  "he  had  no  touch  of  human  feeling 
or  of  human  pity,"  that  "he  had  no  heart,"  that  "he  loved 
no  one  but  himself,"  etc. 

Poe  was  at  this  period  constantly  occupied  in  literary 
work,  either  writing  or  studying.  His  favorite  reading 
was  metaphysics,  travels,  and  poetry.  Disraeli  was  his 
model  as  a  novelist,  Campbell  his  favorite  poet,  and  Vic 
tor  Cousin's  "True,  Beautiful,  and  Good,"  his  favorite 
work  on  metaphysics. 

So,  as  early  as  1832,  Edgar  Poe,  with  that  noble  confi 
dence  which  genius  inspires,  had  adopted  the  literary 
profession.  He  was  the  right  man  in  the  wrong  place. 
Baltimore,  pre-eminently  distinguished  for  the  refined 
tastes  and  polished  manners  of  its  people,  has  never  been 
a  literary  city.  The  names  of  the  genial  novelist,  Ken 
nedy,  the  exquisite  lyrist,  Pinkney,  and  the  accomplished 
essayist,  Calvert,  filled  the  measure  of  Baltimore's  literary 
fame,  until  the  name  of  Poe  crowned  it  with  immortal 
glory. 

During   1832-3,    Poe  was  writing  the  "Tales  of  the 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  53 

Folio  Club,"  comprising  "The  Descent  into  the  Mael 
strom,"  "A  Manuscript  found  in  a  Bottle,"  "Adventure 
of  Hans  Pfaall,"  "A  Tale  of  the  Ragged  Mountain," 
"Berenice,"  and  "Lionizing."  These  were  written  with 
the  utmost  care,  pruned  and  re-pruned,  polished  and  re- 
polished,  over  and  over  again,  until,  when  they  left  the 
author's  hands,  they  were  as  perfect  as  the  gems  that  come 
from  the  hands  of  a  Roman  lapidary.  Difficult  as  had 
been  the  writing  of  these  tales,  more  difficult  would  have 
been  their  publication,  had  not  one  of  those  opportuni 
ties  occurred  which  seems  to  come  to  every  person  once 
in  a  lifetime. 

In  the  summer  of  1833,  the  Baltimore  Saturday  Visitor 
— a  weekly  literary  journal,  which  had  been  started  in 
1832,  under  the  editorial  charge  of  L.  A.  Wilmer — offered 
one  hundred  dollars  for  the  best  prose  story,  and  fifty 
dollars  for  the  best  poem.  Poe  submitted  his  "Tales  of 
the  Folio  Club,"  and  his  poem,  "The  Coliseum,"  in  com 
petition  for  the  prizes.  The  committee  appointed  to 
award  the  prizes  were  the  late  Hon.  John  P.  Kennedy 
(author  of  "Horse-shoe  Robinson,"  etc.),  and  two  other 
professional  gentlemen  (a  doctor  and  a  lawyer),  who  pos 
sessed  only  a  local  repute.  The  "Tales  of  the  Folio 
Club"  were  so  immeasurably  superior  to  all  the  other 
stories  submitted,  that  the  hundred-dollar  prize  was  unan 
imously  given  to  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  the  "Manuscript 
found  in  a  Bottle  "  was  selected  as  the  one  to  which  the 


54  LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 

premium  should  be  awarded.  The  poem  sent  in  by  Poe 
has  been  admired  by  all  readers  as  a  magnificent  tribute 
to  the  grandeur  and  glory  of  the  Coliseum.  It  was  as  su 
perior  to  the  other  " poems"  as  the  "Manuscript  found 
in  a  Bottle"  was  superior  to  the  other  stories;  but,  having 
awarded  the  hundred-dollar  prize  to  Poe,  it  was  deemed 
expedient  to  bestow  the  fifty-dollar  prize  upon  one  of  the 
other  competitors.  So,  having  selected  from  the  mass  of 
rubbish  a  "poem"  a  shade  better  than  the  rest,  which 
was  written  by  an  unknown  local  genius,  the  smaller' 
prize  was  awarded  to  him. 


LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.  POE.  55 


CHAPTER  V. 

1834-1836. 

POE  BECOMES  A  CONTRIBUTOR  TO  The  Southern  Literary  Messen 
ger. — MARRIES  VIRGINIA  CLEMM. — EDITOR  OF  The  Messenger. 
— His  BRILLIANT  ARTICLES. —  His  SEVERE  CRITICISMS. — 
SOCIAL  POSITION  IN  RICHMOND. 

JDGAR  POE  was  now  upon  the  first  step  of  the 
ladder  which  leads  ad  aslra.  Like  Goldsmith, 
Shelley,  Byron,  Burns,  and  Keats,  his  literary 
career  was  brief,  and  like  theirs,  his  fame  will  be  endur 
ing.  He  did  not,  like  Lord  Byron,  "awake  one  morning, 
and  find  himself  famous."  He  had  to  fight  his  way  to 
recognition,  through  toil,  poverty,  and  suffering. 

John  P.  Kennedy  was  neither  a  great  lawyer,  great 
novelist,  nor  great  statesman  ;  but  his  kindness  to  Poe  will 
embalm  his  name  forever  in  the  memory  of  all  lovers  of 
genius.  Of  the  three  gentlemen  composing  the  commit 
tee,  he  alone  extended  a  helping  hand  to  the  poor  young 
poet ;  he  alone  interested  himself  in  the  career  of  the  am 
bitious  young  author.  He  invited  Poe  to  his  house,  made 
him  welcome  at  his  table,  and  furnished  him  with  a  sad 
dle-horse,  that  he  might  take  exercise  whenever  he  pleased. 


56  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

He  did  more:  he  introduced  hisprotfgeto  the  proprietor  of 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  then  recently  started  at 
Richmond,  and  recommended  him  as  being  "very  clever 
with  his  pen,  classical,  and  scholar-like."  Mr.  F.  W. 
White,  the  proprietor  of  The  Messenger,  invited  Poe  to 
send  in  a  contribution.  He  was  delighted  to  comply  with 
the  request.  In  the  number  for  March,  1835,  appeared 
his  strangely  beautiful  story,  ''Berenice,"  which  attracted 
immediate  attention.  From  that  time  Poe  became  a  reg 
ular  monthly  contributor  to  The  Messenger,  furnishing 
tales,  poems,  and  criticisms  with  marvelous  rapidity, 
when  we  consider  their  exquisite  finish. 

It  is  pleasant  to  quote,  from  one  of  Edgar  Poe's  letters, 
written  to  Mr.  White  at  this  time,  two  passages,  which  show 
that  he  possessed,  in  a  remarkable  degree,  the  very  two 
virtues  which  have  been  denied  him,  viz.,  gratitude  and 
humility.  He  had  written  a  critique  of  John  P.  Ken 
nedy's  novel,  "Horse-shoe  Robinson,"  and,  apologizing 
for  the  hasty  sketch  he  sent,  instead  of  the  thorough  re 
view  which  he  intended,  he  says  :  "At  the  time,  I  was  so 
ill  as  to  be  hardly  able  to  see  the  paper  on  which  I  wrote, 
and  I  finished  it  in  a  state  of  complete  exhaustion.  I 
have  not,  therefore,  done  anything  like  justice  to  the  book, 
and  I  am  vexed  about  the  matter,  for  Mr.  Kennedy  has 
proved  himself  a  kind  friend  to  me  in  every  respect,  and 
I  am  sincerely  grateful  to  him  for  many  acts  of  generosity  and 
attention"  In  the  same  letter,  in  answer  to  Mr.  White's 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  57 

query,  whether  he  was  satisfied  with  the  pay  he  was  re 
ceiving  for  his  work  on-  The  Messenger,  Poe  wrote:  "I 
reply  that  lam,  entirely.  My  poor  services  are  not  worth 
what  you  give  me  for  them. " 

For  four  years  Edgar  Poe  had  been  engaged  in  the 
most  delightful  of  occupations — the  instruction  of  a 
beautiful  girl,  singularly  interesting  and  truly  loved.  For 
four  years,  Virginia — his  starry-eyed  young  cousin — had 
been  his  pupil.  Never  had  teacher  so  lovely  a  pupil, 
never  had  pupil  so  tender  a  teacher.  They  were  both 
young  ;  she  was  a  child. 

"  But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 
Of  those  who  were  older  than  we." 

Under  the  name  of  Eleonora,  Edgar  tells  the  story  of 
their  love  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many-colored  Grass.  He 
describes  the  "sweet  recesses  of  the  vale;"  the  "deep 
and  narrow  river,  brighter  than  all,  save  the  eyes  of  Eleo 
nora  ; "  the  "soft,  green  grass,  besprinkled  with  the  yel 
low  buttercup,  the  white  daisy,  the  purple  violet,  and  the 
ruby-red  asphodel " — all  so  beautiful  that  it  "spoke  to 
our  hearts  of  the  love  and  glory  of  God.".  Here  they 
"  lived  all  alone,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world  without 
the  valley — /,  and  my  cousin,  and  her  mother."  ''The 
loveliness  of  Eleonora  was  that  of  the  seraphim,  and  she 
was  a  maiden  artless  and  innocent  as  the  brief  life  she  had 
led  among  the  flowers.  No  guile  disguised  the  fervor  of 
love  which  animated  her  heart,"  etc. 
3* 


58  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

As  soon  as  his  prospects  began  to  brighten,  and  his 
regular  employment  on  The  Messenger  gave  him  a  fixed 
income,  Edgar,  with  the  enthusiastic  ardor  of  his  race, 
wanted  to  many  his  cousin  Virginia,  although  she  was 
only  in  her  fourteenth  year.  Late  in  the  summer  of  1835, 
he  was  offered  the  position  of  assistant  editor  of  The  Mes 
senger,  at  a  salary  of  five  hundred  dollars  per  annum.  He 
gladly  accepted  the  offer,  and  prepared  to  remove  to 
Richmond  immediately.  Before  leaving  Baltimore,  he 
persuaded  Mrs.  Clemm  to  allow  him  to  marry  Virginia, 
and  on  the  2d  of  September,  1835,  they  were  married,  at 
old  Christ  Church,  by  the  Rev.  John  Johns,  D.  D.,  after 
ward  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Bishop  of  Virginia.  The 
next  day  he  went  to  Richmond,  and  did  not  see  his  darl 
ing  little  wife  for  a  year,  when  she  and  her  mother  joined 
him  in  that  city. 

Poe  felt  most  painfully  the  separation  from  "her  he 
loved  so  dearly."  For  years  Virginia  had  been  his  daily, 
his  hourly  companion  and  confidant.  Like  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  they  had  one  home  and  one  heart.  He  had 
watched  her  young  mind's  development ;  he  had  seen 
her  grow  each  year  more  lovely,  more  winning,  more  in 
teresting.  And  now,  when  his  most  cherished  wish  was 
realized,  by  the  sweet  girl  becoming  his  wife,  he  was 
two  hundred  miles  away  from  her.  In  the  first  days  of 
this  separation,  he  wrote  Mr.  Kennedy  a  letter  (dated 
Richmond,  September  n,  1835),  in  which,  after  express- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  59 

ing  a  deep  sense  of  gratitude  for  frequent  kindness  and 
assistance,  he  says : 

"  I  am  suffering  under  a  depression  of  spirits  such  as 
I  have  never  felt  before.  I  have  struggled  in  vain  against 
the  influence  of  this  melancholy  ;  you  will  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  I  am  still  miserable,  in  spite  of  the  great 
improvement  in  my  circumstances.  My  heart  is  open 
before  you  ;  if  it  be  worth  reading,  read  it.  Write  me 
immediately  ;  convince  me  that  it  is  worth  one's  while — 
that  it  is  at  all  necessary — to  live,  and  you  will  prove 
yourself  indeed  my  friend.  Persuade  me  to  do  what  is 
right.  I  do  mean  this.  Write  me,  then,  and  quickly. 
Your  words  will  have  more  weight  with  me  than  the 
words  of  others,  for  you  were  my  friend  when  no  one  else 
was. " 

In  December,  1835,  Poe  was  made  editor  of  The  Mes 
senger.  Under  his  editorial  management,  the  work  soon 
became  well  known  everywhere.  Perhaps  no  similar  en 
terprise  ever  prospered  so  largely  in  its  commencement, 
and  none,  in  the  same  length  of  time — not  even  Black- 
wood,  in  the  brilliant  days  of  Dr.  Maginn,  ever  published 
so  many  dazzling  articles  from  the  same  pen.  Strange 
stories  of  the  German  school,  akin  to  the  most  fanciful 
legend  of  the  Rhine,  fascinating  and  astonishing  the  reader 
with  the  verisimilitude  of  their  improbability,  appeared  in 
the  same  number  with  lyrics  plaintive  and  wondrous 
sweet,  the  earliest  vibration  of  those  chords  .which  have 


60  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

since  sounded  through  the  world.  But  it  was  in  the  edi 
torial  department  of  The  Messenger  that  Poe's  great  powers 
were  most  conspicuously  displayed.  He  was  the  most 
consummate  critic  that  ever  lived.  Woe  to  the  unlucky 
author  who  offended  by  a  dull  book.  His  powerful  pen 
was  as  much  feared  by  the  poetasters  and  literary  dunces 
of  forty  years  ago,  as  Pope's  brilliant  wit  had  been  feared 
a  century  before  by  Theobald  and  the  other  heroes  of  the 
"Dunciad." 

Within  a  year  after  Poe  assumed  control  of  The  Mes-sen- 
ger,  its  circulation  had  increased  from  seven  hundred  to 
five  thousand,  and,  from  a  mere  provincial  magazine  in 
1835,  it  had  become  in  1836  a  magazine  of  national 
reputation,  occupying  a  commanding  position  in  American 
literature.  , 

Edgar  Poe  had  left  Richmond  less  than  five  years  be 
fore,  "a  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown."  He 
returned,  and,  assuming  the  editorship  of  The  Messenger, 
the  leading  periodical  of  the  South,  by  his  original  and 
brilliant  contributions,  he  made  his  name  known  in  all 
the  land  as  an  exquisitely  delicate  poet,  a  fearless  critic, 
and  an  accomplished  literary  artist.  Slander  had  been 
whispered,  nay,  proclaimed  aloud  against  him  ;  abuse 
had  been  heaped  upon  him  ;  malice  had  invented  lies  to 
blacken  his  name.  He  was  too  proud  to  defend  himself 
from  such  attacks.  He  was  too  true  a  gentleman  to 
exonerate  himself  at  the  expense  of  a  lady,  although  that 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  6 1 

lady  had  been  the  primary  cause  of  his  separation  from 
Mr.  Allan,  and,  consequently,  of  his  loss  of  fortune. 

His  domestic  life  in  Richmond,  after  Mrs.  Clemm  and 
Virginia  joined  him,  was  sweet  and  pure  and  true.  He 
was  devoted  to  his  beautiful  child-wife,  and  she  idolized 
her  gifted  husband.  To  gratify  her  taste  for  music,  he 
had  her  taught  by  the  best  masters,  although  his  salary 
could  scarcely  afford  the  expense.  But  he  cheerfully 
denied  himself  many  little  personal  comforts  for  her  sake. . 
Mrs.  Clemm  was  the  Martha  of  the  little  household,  pro 
viding  the  food,  and  sometimes  cooking  it ;  keeping 
everything  neat  and  tidy  and  inviting.  Their  home  fully 
illustrated  Goethe's  saying  that  beauty  is  cheap  where  taste 
is  the  purchaser. 

While  conducting  The  Messenger,  Poe's  time  was  so 
fully  occupied  that  he  seldom  went  into  general  society. 
Indeed,  from  this  time  forward,  he  mingled  little  in  what 
is  called  the  gay  world.  The  society  of  cultivated  women 
was  always  attractive  to  him.  That  he  now  enjoyed  at 
the  Mackenzies,  Daniels,  Macfarlands,  Fairfaxes,  Haxalls, 
Amblers,  and  two  or  three  other  houses,  that  formed  a 
delightful  literary  coterie  in  Richmond  forty  years  ago. 


62  LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

1837-8. 

POE  REMOVES  TO  NEW  YORK. — BECOMES  ASSOCIATE  EDITOR  OF 
THE  NEW  YORK  Quarterly  Review. — LITERARY  LABORS. — PRI 
VATE  LIFE. — VIRGINIA'S  LOVELINESS. — POE  WRITES  "  THE 
NARRATIVE  OF  ARTHUR  GORDON  PYM." — REMOVES  TO  PHIL 
ADELPHIA. — His  HOME  THERE. — His  OPINION  OF  WASHING 
TON  IRVING. — MRS.  CLEMM. 

|ERHAPS  the  happiest  period  of  Edgar  Poe's  life 
was  the  last  year  that  he  was  the  editor  of  The 
Southern  Literary  Messenger.  At  the  early  age 
of  twenty-six,  he  had  made  a  brilliant  reputation  ;  he 
was  married  to  the  sweet  girl  Virginia  ;  he  was  young 
and  hopeful  ;  his  life  was  full  of  bright  promise  ;  his 
noble  brow — as  white  as  a  girl's,  and  as  beautiful  as  a 
god's — had  not  been  clouded  by  suffering  and  sorrow  ; 
his  " sweet,  imperious  mouth"  had  not  caught  the  expres 
sion  of  lofty  scorn  which  contact  with  a  false  and  hollow 
world  made  habitual  in  his  later  years. 

In  January,  1837,  Poe  was  offered  the  position  of  asso 
ciate  editor  of  the  New  York  Quarterly  Review.     As  the 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  63 

salary  was  larger  than  he  received  on  The  Messenger,  and 
New  York  was  a  far  wider  field  for  a  professional  litterateur 
than  the  provincial  little  city  of  Richmond,  he  accepted 
the  offer.  Mr.  White,  the  proprieter  of  The  Messenger, 
parted  with  him  with  much  regret,  and,  in  the  number 
of  the  magazine  which  had  the  announcement  of  Foe's 
retirement,  promised  that  he  would  "continue  to  furnish 
its  columns  from  time  to  time  with  the  effusions  of  his 
vigorous  and  powerful  pen;"  He  never  relinquished  his 
early  interest  in  The  Messenger,  but  wrote  occasionally  for 
it  as  long  as  he  lived.  As  some  of  his  earliest,  so  some 
of  his  latest  writings  were  first  published  in  that  maga 
zine. 

In  the  winter  of  1837,  Poe  and  his  little  family  removed 
to  New  York.  Mrs.  Clemm  endeavored  to  add  to  their 
small  income  by  taking  boarders.  Among  the  latter  was 
the  late  William  Gowans,  the  well-known  second-hand 
bookseller,  who  has  furnished  a  brief  but  interesting  ac 
count  of  Poe's  life  at  this  time.  He  says  : 

"For  eight  months  or  more  one  house  contained  us, 
arid  one  table  fed  us.  I  saw  much  of  Mr.  Poe  during 
that  time,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  conversing  with  him 
often.  He  was  one  of  the  most  courteous,  gentlemanly, 
and  intelligent  companions  I  ever  met.  I  never  saw  him 
in  the  least  affected  by  liquor,  or  descend  to  any  known 
vice.  He  kept  good  hours,  and  all  his  little  wants  were 
attended  to  by  Mrs.  Clemm  and  her  daughter,  who 


64  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

watched  him  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  Mrs. 
Poe  was  a  lady  of  matchless  beauty  and  loveliness ;  her 
eyes  could  match  those  of  any  houri,  and  her  face  defy 
the  genius  of  any  Canova  to  imitate;  her  .temper  and 
disposition  were  of  a  surpassing  sweetness,  and  she 
seemed  as  much  devoted  to  him  and  his  every  interest 
as  a  young  mother  is  to  her  first  born." 

Poe's  contributions  to  the  New  York  Quarterly  Review 
were  chiefly  critiques  of  current  literature.  They  dis 
played  his  extraordinary  force  as  a  critic,  his  elegant 
scholarship,  and  his  immense  reading.  As  they  were 
very  unsparing  in  exposing  the  literary  pretenders  of  the 
day,  Poe  made  many  enemies  by  his  criticisms,  enemies 
who  nursed  their  wrath  and  kept  it  warm  until  he  was 
cold  in  his  grave ;  then  safely  poured  and  cotifinue  to  pour 
their  venomous  slander  upon  his  memory. 

In  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  for  January  and 
February,  1837,  appeared  the  first  portions  of  "The  Nar 
rative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym."  It  attracted  much  atten 
tion  while  running  through  The  Messenger,  and  it  was 
afterward  published  in  book  form,  both  in  this  country 
and  in  England,  where  it  went  through  three  editions  in 
a  very  short  time.  It  is  not  considered,  however,  one  of 
Poe's  most  successful  productions,  and  is  not  now  read 
with  half  the  interest  that  "William  Wilson,"  "Ligeia," 
"  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  and  "  The  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher  "  are  read.  These  wonderful  tales — 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR   A.  POE.  65 

more  artistic  than  Hoffmann's,  more  circumstantial  than 
DeFoe's — display  a  richness  of  imagination,  and  a  beauty 
of  style  which  have  made  Edgar  Poe  peerless  in  that  pecu 
liar  department  of  fictitious  literature. 

Our  poet's  first  residence  in  New  York  lasted  from  early 
in  the  winter  of  1837  to  late  in  the  summer  of  1838, 
when  he  removed  to  Philadelphia.  Soon  after  his  arrival 
in  the  latter  city  he  was  requested,  by  his  old  friend,  Dr. 
N.  C.  Brooks,  to  write  the  leading  article  for  the  first 
number  of  The  American  Museum,  a  monthly  magazine, 
about  to  be  started  by  Dr.  Brooks,  in  Baltimore.  The 
subject  suggested  was  "Washington  Irving."  Dr.  Brooks 
received  the  following  reply  : 

"PHILADELPHIA,  September  4,  1838. 
1  'My  DEAR  SIR  : 

' '  I  duly  received  your  favor,  with  the  ten  dollars. 
Touching  the  review,  I  am  forced  to  decline  it  just  now. 
I  should  be  most  unwilling  not  to  execute  such  a  task 
well,  and  this  I  could  not  do  at  so  short  a  notice,  at  least 
now.  I  have  two  other  engagements  which  it  would  be 
ruinous  to  defer.  Besides  this,  I  am  just  leaving  Arch 
Street  for  a  small  house,  and,  of  course,  am  somewhat  in 
confusion. 

"  My  main  reason,  however,  for  declining  is  whatl  first 
alleged,  viz.,  I  could  not  do  the  review. well  at  short  notice. 
It  is  a  theme  upon  which  I  would  like  very'much  to  write, 


66  LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 

for  there  is  a  vast  deal  to  be  said  upon  it.  Irving  is  much 
overrated,  and  a  nice  distinction  might  be  drawn  between 
his  just,  and  surreptitious,  and  adventitious  reputation  ; 
between  what  is  due  to  the  pioneer  solely,  and  what  to  the 
writer. 

11  The  merit,  too,  of  this  tame  propriety  and  faultless- 
ness  of  style  should  be  candidly  weighed.  He  should  be 
compared  with  Addison,  something  being  hinted  about 
imitation,  and  Sir  Roger  De  Coverley  should  be  brought 
up  in  judgment.  A  bold  and  a-priori  investigation  of 
Irving's  claims  would  strike  home,  take  my  word  for  it. 
The  American  literary  world  never  saw  anything  of  the 
kind  yet.  Seeing,  therefore,  the  opportunity  of  making 
a  fine  hit,  I  am  unwilling  to  risk  your  fame  by  a  failure  ; 
and  a  failure  would  certainly  be  the  event  were  I  to  under 
take  the  task  at  present. 

"Suppose  you  send  me  the  proof  of  my  article.  I  look 
anxiously  for  the  first  number  of  The  Museum,  from  which 
I  date  the  dawn  of  a  fine  literary  day  in  Baltimore. 

"After  the  I5th,  I  shall  be  more  at  leisure,  and  will  be 
happy  to  do  you  any  literary  service  in  my  power.  You 
have  but  to  hint. 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"EDGAR  A.   POE." 

The  article,  of  which  Poe  desired  the  "proof,"  was 
"  Ligeia."  It  was  published  in  the  first  number  of  The 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  67 

Museum,  September,  1838.  In  this  magazine,  Poe  also 
published  his  clever  satirical  sketch,  "The  Signora  Psyche 
Zenobia/'  "Literary  Small  Talk/' and  the  dainty,  airy 
"Haunted  Palace." 

Poe  resided  most  of  the  time,  while  in  Philadelphia,  at 
Spring  Garden,  a  suburb  of  the  city.  Captain  Mayne 
Reid,  who  became  acquainted  with  him  at  this  time, 
wrote  a  most  delightful  description  of  his  home  and 
family.  The  house  was  small,  but  furnished  with  much 
taste  ;  flowers  bloomed  around  the  porch,  and  the  sing 
ing  of  birds  was  heard.  It  seemed,  indeed,  the  very  home 
fora  poet.  "  In  this  humble  domicile,"  says  Mayne  Reid, 
"  I  have  spent  some  of  the  pleasantest  hours  of  my  life — 
certainly,  some  of  the  most  intellectual.  They  were 
passed  in  the  company  of  the  poet  himself  and  his  wife — 
a  lady  angelically  beautiful  in  person,  and  not  less  beau 
tiful  in  spirit.  No  one  who  remembers  that  dark-eyed, 
dark-haired  daughter  of  the  South ;  her  face  so  exqui 
sitely  lovely  ;  her  gentle,  graceful  demeanor  ;  no  one  who 
has  ever  spent  an  hour  in  her  society,  but  will  indorse 
what  I  have  said  of  this  lady,  who  was  the  most  delicate 
realization  of  the  poet's  rarest  ideal.  But  the  bloom 
upon  her  cheek  was  too  pure,  too  bright  for  earth.  It 
was  consumption's  color — that  sadly  beautiful  light  that 
beckons  to  an  early  grave. 

"With  the  poet  and  his  wife  there  lived  another  person — 
Mrs.  Clemm.  She  was  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Poe — and  one 


68  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

of  those  grand  American  mothers.  She  was  the  ever-vigi 
lant  guardian  of  the  house,  watching  over  the  comfort  of 
her  two  children,  keeping  everything'  neat  and  clean,  so 
as  to  please  the  fastidious  eyes  of  the  poet ;  going  to 
market,  and  bringing  home  the  little  delicacies  that  their 
limited  means  would  allow ;  going  to  publishers  with  a 
poem,  a  critique,  or  a  story,  and  often  returning  with 
out  the  much-needed  money."  This  is  a  very  pleasing 
glimpse  at  the  home  life  of  our  poet,  and  all  the  more 
valuable,  coming,  as  it  does,  spontaneously  from  a  for 
eigner.  Such  scenes  show  more  truly  a  man's  real  char 
acter  than  volumes  of  human  analysis. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  give  just  here  a  few  per 
sonal  particulars  which  Mrs.  Clemm  furnished  me,  and 
which  I  took  down  in  short-hand  at  the  time  :  "Eddie 
had  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money.  I  had  to  attend  to 
all  his  pecuniary  affairs.  I  even  bought  his  clothes  for 
him  ;  he  never  bought  a  pair  of  gloves  or  a  cravat  for 
himself;  he  never  would  calculate;  he  was  very  chari 
table,  and  would  empty  his  pockets  to  a  beggar.  He 
loved  Virginia  with  a  tenderness  and  a  devotion  which  no 
words  can  express,  and  he  was  the  most  affectionate  of 
sons  to  me." 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  69 


CHAPTER  VII. 

1838-1842. 

EDITOR  OF  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. — SMALL  SALARY. — PUB 
LISHES  "  TALES  OF  THE  ARABESQUE  AND  GROTESQUE." — 
EDITQR  OF  Graham's  Magazine. — POE'S  CRITICAL  ABILITY. — 
His  WONDERFUL  INTUITION. — "THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE 
MORGUE." — "  THE  MYSTERY  OF  MARIE  ROGET." — POE'S 
REPUTATION  ABROAD. — FRENCH  ADMIRATION  OF  His  GE 
NIUS. — POE'S  OPINION  OF  DICKENS. — PROSPECTIVE  NOTICE 
OF  "BARNABY  RUDGE." — WANTS  A  CLERKSHIP  AT  WASH 
INGTON. 

|OON  after  his  removal  to  Philadelphia,  Poe  was 
engaged  as  a  contributor  upon  The  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  which  was  owned  by  William  E. 
Burton,  the  comedian.  He  drew  immediate  attention  to 
the  magazine  by  his  powerful  criticisms,  and  strange, 
fascinating  tales.  Among  the  latter  was  "The  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher,"  which  is  considered  by  most  readers 
Poe's  masterpiece  in  imaginative  fiction  ;  but  he  gave  that 
preference  to  "  Ligeia."  "Both  have  the  unquestionable 
stamp  of  genius.  The  analysis  of  the  growth  of  madness 
in  one,  and  the  thrilling  revelations  of  the  existence 


70  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

of  a  first  wife  in  the  person  of  a  second,  in  the  other, 
are  made  with  consummate  skill.;  and  the  strange  and 
solemn  and  fascinating  beauty,  which  informs  the  style 
and  invests  the  circumstances  of  both,  drugs  the  mind, 
and  makes  us  forget  the  improbabilities  of  their  general 
design."  In  1839  these  and  other  romantic  creations  of 
his  peerless  imagination  were  published  in  two  volumes, 
under  the  title  of  "Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Ara 
besque,"  by  Lee  &  Blanchard,  of  Philadelphia.  Hence 
forth,  in  this  department  of  imaginative  composition,  Poe 
was  "alone  and  unapproachable." 

Burton  was  so  well  satisfied  with  Poe's  contributions 
to  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine  that  in  May,  1839,  he  ap 
pointed  him  its  editor-in-chief.  For  two  hours'  work 
ever)''  day,  the  editor  received  ten  dollars  a  week — very 
paltry  pay  for  a  man  of  Poe's  reputation  and  genius  ;  there 
are  scores  of  editors  in  this  country  to-day,  who,  not  pos 
sessing  half  of  his  reputation,  or  any  of  his  genius,  are 
twice  as  well  paid.  But  American  writers,  thirty  and 
forty  years  ago,  were  not  paid  so  well  as  .American  scrib 
blers  are  now  paid.  Poe's  duties  upon  The  Gentleman's 
Magazine  left  him  plenty  of  time  for  other  literary  work. 
He  was  always  a  most  industrious  writer ;  never  idle, 
never  lounging ;  when  not  engaged  upon  a  critique,  he 
was  writing  a  tale  or  a  poem. 

In  the  autumn  of  1840,  Mr.  Burton  sold  The  Gentle- 
mans  Magazine  to  George  R.  Graham,  owner  of  The 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  7! 

Casket ;  the  two  periodicals  were  merged  into  one,  and 
published  under  the  name  of  Grahams  Magazine.  Poe 
was  retained  as  the  editor  of  the  new  magazine.  Under 
his  management  it  soon  reached  an  extensive  circulation  ; 
in  fact,  the  circulation,  which  was  five  thousand  when 
he  took  charge  of  it  in  November,  1840,  was  more  than 
fifty  thousand  when  he  retired  in  November,  1842.  In 
Graham's  Magazine  he  continued  his  merciless  exposure 
of  the  dunces,  which  he  had  so  savagely  begun  five  years 
before  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  The  small 
poetasters  fell  before  his  powerful  pen  as  surely  and  as 
completely  as  the  summer  grass  before  the  scythe  of  the 
mower.  They  fell  to  rise  no  more.  Commonplace  peo 
ple — and  they  are  the  vast  majority  of  mankind — think  (if 
they  are  capable  of  thinking  upon  any  subject)  that  Ed 
gar  Poe  took  a  savage  delight  in  impaling  these  would-be 
poets  upon  the  point  of  his  critical  pen  ;  whereas  the  truth 
is,  that  there  was  no  personal  feeling  at  all  in  the  matter. 
But  his  love  of  the  beautiful  was  so  exquisite  that  a  false 
meter,  an  inelegant  phrase,  or  an  imperfect  image  was 
perfect  torture  to  him  ;  hence  his  severe  criticisms.  His 
taste  was  fastidious — faultless  ;  his  judgment  unerring  ; 
his  decision  final.  He  was  among  the  first  to  proclaim 
the  genius  of  Mrs.  Browning  (then  Miss  Barrett)  to  the 
world  ;  and  when  he  collected  his  poems  into  a  volume, 
the  book  was  dedicated  to  her,  as  "To  the  noblest  of  her 
sex,  with  the  most  enthusiastic  admiration,  and  with  the  most 


72  LIFE    OF   EDGAR    A.  POE. 

sincere  esteem"  His  estimate  of  Hawthorne,  of  Willis, 
of  Halleck,  was  eminently  just.  He  placed  Longfellow, 
in  1846,  the  first  among  American  poets;  the  place  which, 
in  1876,  Poe  himself  holds,  in  the  opinion  of  the  lead 
ing  scholars  of  England,  France,  and  Germany.  He  was 
the  first  to  introduce  to  American  readers  the  then  un 
known  poet,  Tennyson,  and  boldly  declared  him  to  be 
"the  noblest  poet  that  ever  lived,"  at  a  time  when  the 
English  critics  had  failed  to  discover  the  genius  of  the 
future  Poet  Laureate. 

Poe's  reputation  was  much  increased  by  the  publication, 
in  the  April  (1841)  number  of  Grahams  Magazine,  of  the 
extraordinary,  analytical  story,  "  The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,"  which  introduced  him  for  the  first  time  to 
French  readers,  and,  also,  made  his  name  conspicuous  in 
the  French  courts.  The  tale  was  dressed  up  to  suit  the 
French  palate  by  a  Paris  Bohemian,  and  published  in 
"Le  Commerce,  as  an  original  story,  under  the  name  of 
"  L'Orang  Otang. "  Not  long  afterward,  another  French 
journal,  La  Quotidienne,  published  a  translation  of  the  story 
under  another  name.  Thereupon  Le  Siecle  charged  La 
Quotidienne  with  having  stolen  the  said  feuilleton  from  one 
previously  published  in  Le  Commerce.  This  led  to  a  war 
of  words  between  the  editors  of  La  Quotidienne  and  Le 
Siecle.  The  quarrel  became  so  warm  that  it  was  car 
ried  to  the  law  courts  for  settlement,  where  the  aforesaid 
Bohemian  proved  that  he  had  stolen  the  story  from  Mon- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  73 

sieur  Edgar  A.  Poe,  an  American  writer.  It  was  proved, 
also,  that  the  writer  in  La  Quotidienne  was  himself  an  im 
pudent  plagiarist,  for  he  had  taken  Monsieur  Poe's  story 
without  a  word  of  acknowledgment ;  whilst  the  editor  of 
Le  Such  was  forced  to  admit  that  not  only  had  he  never 
read  any  of  Poe's  works,  but  had  not  even  heard  of  him. 
The  public  attention  having  been  thus  directed  to  Poe,  his 
best  tales  were  translated  by  Madame  Isabelle  Mennier, 
and  published  in  several  French  magazines.  The  leading 
French  journals  united  in  bestowing  upon  our  author  the 
highest  praise  for  the  extraordinary  power  and  ingenuity 
displayed  in  these  tales.  Later,  Charles  Baudelaire,  hav 
ing,  by  years  of  studious  application,  thoroughly  imbued 
his  mind  with  the  spirit  of  Edgar  Poe's  prose  writings, 
his  translation  of  them  was  published  in  1864-5,  in  five 
i2mo  volumes,  by  Michel  Levy  et  Freres,  of  Paris.  Poe 
is  among  the  very  few,  perhaps  it  may  be  said,  that  he  is 
the  only  American  author  who  is  really  popular  in  France. 
That  he  has  become  a  standard  and  classic  writer  there 
is,  in  a  great  measure,  owing  to  the  patient  industry  of 
Baudelaire. 

Poe  followed  the  "  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue"  by 
the  "  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget,"  in  which  the  scene  of  the 
mysterious  murder  of  a  cigar  girl,  named  Mary  Rogers, 
in  the  vicinity  of  New  York,  was  transferred  to  Paris,  and, 
by  a  wonderful  train  of  analytical  reasoning,  the  mystery 
that  surrounded  the  affair  was  completely  disentangled. 
4 


74  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

These,  and  a  succeeding  story,  "The  Purloined  Letter," 
are  the  most  ingenious  tales  of  ratiocination  in  the  Eng 
lish  language.  It  may  be  an  interesting  piece  of  informa 
tion  that  Monsieur  G ,  the  Prefect  of  the  Parisian  Po 
lice,  who  is  mentioned  in  these  stories,  was  Monsieur 
Grisquet,  for  many  years  Chief  of  the  Paris  Police,  who 
died  in  the  month  of  February,  1866. 

But  perhaps  the  most  successful  and  most  skillful  of 
Poe's  efforts  at  ratiocination  was  that  in  which  he  pointed 
out  what  must  be  the  plot  of  Dickens's  celebrated  novel, 
"  Barnaby  Rudge,"  when  only  the  beginning  of  the  story 
had  been  published.  In  the  Philadelphia  Saturday  Even 
ing  Post,  of  May  I,  1841,  Poe  printed  what  he  called  a 
"  prospective  notice  "  of  the  novel,  in  which  he  used  the 
following  words  : 

"That  Barnaby  is  the  son  of  the  murderer  may  not  ap 
pear  evident  to  our  readers  ;  but  we  will  explain  :  The 
person  murdered  is  Mr.  Reuben  Haredale.  His  steward 
(Mr.  Rudge,  Senior)  and  his  gardener  are  missing.  At 
first  both  are  suspected.  '  Some  months  afterward/  in  the 
language  of  the  story,  '  the  steward's  body,  scarcely  to  be 
recognized  but  by  his  clothes  and  the  watch  and  ring  he 
wore,  was  found  at  the  bottom  of  a  piece  of  water  in  the 
grounds,  with  a  deep  gash  in  the  breast,  where  he  had 
been  stabbed  by  a  knife/  etc.,  etc. 

"Now,  be  it  observed,  it  is  not  the  author  himself  who 
asserts  that  the  steward's  body  was  found ;  he  has  put  the 


LIFE    Of    EDGAR    A.  POE.  75 

words  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  characters.  His  design 
is  to  make  it  appear  in  the  denouement  that  the  steward, 
Rudge,  first  murdered  the  gardener,  then  went  to  his 
master's  chamber,  murdered  him,  was  interrupted  by  his 
(Rudge's)  wife,  whom  he  seized  and  held  by  ihe  wrist,  to 
prevent  her  giving  the  alarm  ;  that  he  then,  after  possessing 
himself  of  the  booty  desired,  returned  to  the  gardener's 
room,  exchanged  clothes  with  him,  put  upon  the  corpse 
his  own  watch  and  ring,  and  secreted  it  where  it  was  after 
ward  discovered  at  so  late  a  period  that  the  features  could 
not  be  identified." 

Readers  who  are  familiar  with  the  plot  of  "  Barnaby 
Rudge  "  will  perceive  that  the  differences  between  Poe's 
preconceived  ideas  and  the  actual  facts  of  the  story  are 
very  immaterial.  Dickens  expressed  his  admiring  appre 
ciation  of  this  analysis  of  "Barnaby  Rudge."  He  would 
not  have  expressed  the  same  appreciation  of  Poe's  opinion 
of  him,  when  reviewing  the  completed  novel.  At  the 
time  when  Charles  Dickens  was  the  most  popular  writer 
in  the  world,  Edgar  Poe  (who  could  never  be  made  to 
bow  his  supreme  intellect  to  any  idol)  boldly  declared 
that  he  "  failed  peculiarly  in  pure  narrative,"  pointing  out, 
at  the  same  time,  several  grammatical  mistakes  of  the  great 
Boz.  He  also  showed  that  Dickens  "occasionally  lapsed 
into  a  gross  imitation  of  what  itself  is  a  gross  imitation — the 
manner  of  Lamb — a  manner  based  in  the  Latin  construc 
tion.  Poe  further  showed  that  Dickens's  sreat  success  as  a 


76  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

novelist  consisted  in  the  delineation  of  character,  and 
that  those  characters  were  grossly  exaggerated  caricatures 
— all  of  which  is  now  generally  admitted  ;  but  it  required 
considerable  courage  to  proclaim  such  an  opinion  at  the 
tjme  when  Poe  proclaimed  it. 

While  Poe  was  editor  of  Grahams  Magazine,  his  restless 
spirit  grew  tired  of  the  "endless  toil  "  of  editorial  life, 
and  he  endeavored  to  secure  more  certain  and  more  re 
munerative  employment.  His  intimate  friend  arid  life 
long  correspondent,  William  F.  Thomas,  of  Baltimore, 
author  of  ''Clinton  Bradshaw,"and  other  novels  of  some 
note  forty  years  ago,  had  obtained  a  Government  clerk 
ship  at  Washington.  In  the  year  1842,  Poe  wrote  to  Mr. 
Thomas,  expressing  a  wish  to  get  a  similar  position,  say 
ing  that  he  "would  be  glad  to  get  almost  any  appoint 
ment — even  a  five  hundred  dollar  clerkship — so  that  I 
have  something  independent  of  letters  for  a  subsistence. 
To  coin  one's  brain  into  silver,  at  the  nod  of  a  master,  is, 
I  am  thinking,  the  hardest  task  in  the  world."  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  letter  he  says  he  hopes  some  day  to  have 
a  "  beautiful  little  cottage,  completely  buried  in  vines  and 
flowers."  How  fortunate  for  the  world  that  Edgar  Poe 
failed  to  secure  "  even  a  five  hundred  dollar  clerkship''  ! 
Had  he  settled  down  to  the  dull  routine  of  official  life,  he 
would  probably  not  have  written  "The  Raven,"  "Eu 
reka,"  "Ulalume,"  "The  Literati  of  New  York,"  and 
other  works  which  adorn  American  literature. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  77 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
1842-1815. 

FOE'S  TENDER  DEVOTION  TO  HIS  WIFE. — HE  RETIRES  FROM  Gra 
ham's  Magazine. — PROJECTS  The  Stylus. — "THE  GOLD  BUG." 
— REMOVAL  TO  NEW  YORK. — LITERARY  EDITOR  OF  The  Mir 
ror. —  The  Broadway  Journal. — NEW  YORK  LITERARY  SOCI 
ETY. — POE  ITS  BRIGHTEST  ORNAMENT. 

|IRGINIA  FOE'S  health,  which  had  always  been 
delicate,  became  still  more  precarious  toward 
the  autumn  of  1842.  Friends  and  foes  alike 
agree  in  testifying  to  Edgar  Poe's  tender  devotion  to  his 
darling  wife,  "in  sickness  and  in  health."  The  most 
unrelenting  of  his  enemies  alludes  to  the  fact  of  having 
been  sent  for  to  visit  him  "during  a  period  of  illness, 
caused  by  protracted  and  anxious  watching  at  the  side  of 
his  sick  wife."  Mr.  George  R.  Graham,  in  a  generous  de 
fense  of  the  dead  poet,  said,  "I  shall  never  forget  how 
solicitous  of  the  happiness  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law 
he  was,  whilst  editor  of  Graham  s  Magazine.  His  whole 
efforts  seemed  to  be  to  procure  the  comfort  and  welfare 
of  his  home.  His  love  for  his  wife  was  a  sort 


78  LIFE    OF   EDGA£   A.  POE. 

of  rapturous  worship  of  the  spirit  of  beauty  which  he  felt 
was  fading  before  his  eyes.  I  have  seen  him  hovering 
around  her,  when  she  was  ill,  with  all  the  fond  fear  and 
tender  anxiety  of  a  mother  for  her  first-born  ;  her  slight 
est  cough  causing  in  him  a  shudder,  a  heart-chill  that 
was  visible.  I  rode  out  one  summer  evening  with  them, 
arid  remembrance  of  his  watchful  eyes,  eagerly  bent  upon 
the  slightest  change  of  hue  in  that  loved  face,  haunts  me 
yet  as  the  memory  of  a  sad  strain.  It  was  this  hourly 
anticipation  of  her  loss  that  made  him  a  sad  and  thought 
ful  man,  and  lent  a  mournful  melody  to  his  undying 
song."  Similar  language  is  used  by  all  who  were  acquaint 
ed  with  the  poet  and  his  family. 

In  November,  1842,  Poe  retired  from  Grahams  Maga 
zine.  His  reputation  as  the  most  brilliant  editor  in 
America  ;  his  fame,  as  a  poet  and  writer  of  purely  imagi 
native  fiction,  extending  to  England  and  over  the  conti 
nent,  made  him  feel  the  very  natural  ambition  of  having 
a  magazine  of  his  own — a  magazine  in  which  he  would 
be  perfectly  untrammeled ;  in  which  he  could  "let  loose 
the  dogs  of  war"  upon  literary  pretenders  even  more 
fiercely  than  he  had  hitherto  been  allowed  to  do.  With 
this  view,  early  in  1843  he  projected  a  magazine,  to  be 
called  The  Stylus.  The  prospectus  was  written,  printed, 
and  circulated  ;  contracts  were  made  for  contributions 
and  illustrations ;  the  day  was  fixed  for  the  appearance  of 
the  first  number.  Failing  to  secure  in  advance  a  suffi- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  79 

cient  number  of  subscribers  to  put  the  magazine  upon  a 
paying  footing,  the  enterprise  was  temporarily  abandoned, 
to  be  taken  up  again  and  again  until  the  close  of  Poe's 
life.  The  prospectus  of  The  Stylus  announced  the  inten 
tion  of  affording  a  fair  and  honorable  field  for  the  true 
intellect  of  the  land,  without  reference  to  the  mere  prestige 
of  celebrated  names.  It  further  declared  that  the  chief 
purpose  of  The  Stylus  was  to  become  known  as  a  journal 
wherein  might  be  found  at  all  times  a  sincere  and  a  fear 
less  opinion,  preserving  always  an  absolutely  independent 
criticism,  acknowledging  no  fear  save  that  of  outraging 
right.  Such  a  magazine,  with  Edgar  A.  Poe  for  its  edi 
tor,  would  have  been  the  most  brilliant  specimen  of  peri 
odical  literature  that  this  country  has  ever  seen.  But  it 
was  never  to  be.  Poe  was  destined  to  disappointment 
through  life.  His  was  the  too  common  lot  of  genius  :  to 
work  for  the  pecuniary  benefit  of  others  during  life,  and 
to  be  rewarded  by  an  immortality  of  glory  after  death. 

Every  production  of  Poe's  pen,  was  now  welcomed  with 
eager  expectation  by  all  cultivated  readers.  There  was  a 
vigor,  a  brilliancy,  an  originality  about  his  writings  in 
delightful  contrast  with  the  dreary  platitude  of  most  of 
the  writers  of  the  time.  No  tales,  weak  as  a  third  cup 
of  boarding-house  tea — no  verses,  diluted  echoes  of  Keats 
and  Byron — no  critiques,  full  of  meaningless  praise — 
came  from  his  powerful  pen. 

In  the  spring  of  1843,  P°e  obtained  the  hundred-dollar 


80  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

prize  offered  by  The  Dollar  Magazine,  of  Philadelphia, 
for  the  best  prose  story.  "The  Gold  Bug"  was  the  tale 
that  won  the  prize.  This  tale,  which  relates  to  the  dis 
covery  of  Captain  Kyd's  long-buried  treasure,  displays  a 
remarkably  skillful  illustration  of  Poe's  celebrated  theory, 
that  human  ingenuity  can  construct  no  enigma  which 
human  ingenuity  cannot,  by  proper  application,  resolve. 
The  chief  interest  centers  upon  the  solution  of  an  ab 
struse  cryptogram. 

In  the  autumn  of  1844,  Edgar  Poe  removed  with  his 
family  to  New  York.  Soon  after  establishing  himself  in 
the  metropolis,  he  was  employed  by  Messrs.  Morris  & 
Willis  as  the  literary  critic  and  assistant  editor  of  The 
Mirror,  a  daily  newspaper.  Fortunately  the  late  N.  P. 
Willis,  one  of  the  owners  and  editors  of  the  paper,  wrote 
an  account  of  Poe  in  this  connection,  which  affords  a 
very  attractive  glimpse  at  our  poet.  Mr.  Willis  says  that 
"he  [Poe]  was  at  his  desk  in  the  morning  from  nine 
o'clock  until  the  evening^paper  went  to  press.  He  was 
invariably  punctual,  and  industrious,  and  good  humor 
ed  ly  ready  for  any  suggestion.  We  loved  the  man  for 
the  entireness  of  the  fidelity  with  which  he  served  us. 
With  his  pale,  beautiful,  and  intellectual  face,  as  a  re 
minder  of  what  genius  was  in  him,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  treat  him  always  with  deferential  courtesy.  To  our 
occasional  request  that  he  would  not  probe  too  deep  in  a 
criticism,  or  that  he  would  erase  a  passage  too  highly 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  8 1 

colored  with  his  resentments  against  society  and  man 
kind,  he  readily  and  courteously  assented — far  more 
yielding  than  most  men,  we  thought,  on  points  so  ex 
cusably  sensitive.  With  a  prospect  of  taking  the  lead  in 
another  periodical,  he  gave  up  his  employment  with  us  ; 
and,  through  all  this  considerable  period  (five  or  six 
months),  we  had  seen  but  one  presentment  of  the  man — 
a  quiet,  patient,  industrious,  and  most  gentlemanly  per 
son,  commanding  the  utmost  respect  and  good  feeling 
by  his  unvarying  deportment  and  ability." 

The  other  periodical,  in  which  he  was  to  take  the  lead, 
was  The  Broadway  Journal,  a  weekly  paper  which  had 
been  started  in  New  York  early  in  January,  1845.  In 
March  of  that  year  Poe  became  associate  editor  of  the 
journal,  and  one-third  owner.  From  its  start,  The  Broad 
way  was  a  dying  concern,  and  when  Poe  became  its  sole 
editor  in  July,  it  was  in  the  last  stage  of  journalistic 
decay.  His  vigorous  contributions,  however,  kept  it  alive 
for  six  months  longer.  Upon  looking  over  the  volumes 
of  the  journal,  I  was  astonished  to  find  so  many  and  such 
elaborate  articles  from  Poe's  pen,  at  the  very  time,  too, 
when  his  adored  wife  was  sick,  almost  dying,  and  when 
he  himself  was  in  ill  health,  poor,  and  harassed  by  cares 
and  troubles  of  all  kinds. 

Poe's  brilliant  literary  reputation  admitted  him  to  the 
most  cultured  society  of  New  York,  where  his  fascinating 
conversation,  his  distinguished  appearance,  and  elegant 
4* 


82  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

manners  delighted  every  one  who  made  his  acquaintance. 
In  the  winter  of  1845-6,  he  was  frequently  present  among 
the  artists  and  men  of  letters,  who  assembled  weekly  at 
the  residence  of  Miss  Anna  C.  Lynch,  in  Waverley  Place. 
An  accomplished  woman,  who  met  him  at  this  time,  says  : 
"  His  manners  at  these  reunions  were  refined  and  pleas 
ing,  and  his  style  and  scope  of  conversation  that  of  a  gen 
tleman  and  a  scholar.  He  delighted  in  the  society  of  supe 
rior  women,  and  had  an  exquisite  perception  of  all  graces 
of  manner  and  shades  of  expression.  He  was  an  admiring 
listener,  and  an  unobtrusive  observer.  We  all  recollect 
the  interest  felt  at  the  time  in  everything  emanating  from 
his  pen  ;  the  relief  it  was  from  the  dullness  of  ordinary 
writers  ;  the  certainty  of  something  fresh  and  suggestive. 
His  critiques  were  read  with  avidity ;  people  felt  their 
ability  and  courage.  Right  or  wrong,  he  was  terribly  in 
earnest."  Mrs.  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,  whose  name  I 
mention  with  the  most  enthusiastic  admiration,  in  that 
noble  defense  of  her  dead  friend,  "Edgar  Foe  and  his 
Critics,"  says  :  "Sometimes  his  fair  young  wife  was  seen 
with  him  at  these  weekly  assemblages  in  Waverley  Place. 
She  seldom  took  part  in  the  conversation  ;  but  the  mem 
ory  of  her  sweet  and  girlish  face,  always  animated  and 
vivacious,  repels  the  assertion,  afterward  so  cruelly  and 
recklessly  made,  that  she  died  a  victim  to  the  neglect  and 
unkindness  of  her  husband,  "  who,"  as  it  has  been  said, 
"deliberately  sought  her  death,  that  he  might  embalm  her 
memory  in  immortal  dirges." 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  83 


CHAPTER   IX. 

1845. 

"THE  RAVEN." — POE'S  MASTERPIECE. — THE  EXTRAORDINARY 
SENSATION  PRODUCED  BY  IT.— THE  EFFECT  OF  THE  POEM 
UPON  AMERICAN  LITERATURE. — POE'S  ANALYSIS. — "  THE 
RAVEN  "  ABROAD. 

|E  have  now  reached  that  period  in  the  life  of 
Edgar  'A.  Poe  when  his  genius  culminated  in 
the  production  of  "  The  Raven,"  which  stands 
alone  in  poetry,  as  the  Venus  in  sculpture  and  the  Trans 
figuration  in  painting. 

"The  Raven  "  was  originally  published  in  The  Ameri 
can  Review — a  New  York  Whig  Journal  of  Politics,  Liter 
ature,  Art,  and  Science — in  the  number  for  February, 
1845.  It  is  rather  remarkable  that  this  poem,  the  master 
piece  of  Poe,  should  be  the  only  composition  of  his  pub 
lished  under  a  nom  deplume.  It  was  headed,>'  The  Raven, " 
by  Quarles,  and  introduced  as  follows  y"  The  following 
lines  from  a  correspondent — besides  the  deep,  quaint  strain 
of  the  sentiment,  and  the  curious  introduction  of  some 
ludicrous  touches  amidst  the  serious  and  impressive,  as 


84  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POfi. 

was  doubtless  intended  by  the  author — appear  to  us  one 
of  the  most  felicitous  specimens  of  unique  rhyming  which 
has  for  some  time  met  our  eye.  The  resources  for  Eng 
lish  rhythm  for  varieties  of  melody,  measure,  and  sound, 
producing  corresponding  diversities  of  effect,  have  been 
thoroughly  studied,  much  more  perceived,  by  very  few 
poets  in  the  language.  While  the  classic  tongues,  espe 
cially  the  Greek,  possess,  by  power  of  accent,  several  ad 
vantages  for  versification  over  our  own,  chiefly  through 
greater  abundance  of  spondaic  feet,  we  have  other  and 
very  great  advantages  of  sound  by  the  modern  usage  of 
rhyme.  Alliteration  is  nearly  the  only  effect  of  that  kind 
which  the  ancients  had  in  common  with  us./  It  will  be 
seen  that  much  of  the  melody  of  '  The  leaven '  arises 
from  alliteration,  ajid  the  studious  use  of  similar  sounds 
in  unusual  places.  I  In  regard  to  its  measure,  it  may  be 
noted  that,  if  all  the  verses  were  like  the  second,  they 
might  properly  be  placed  merely  in  short  lines,  producing 
a  not  uncommon  form  ;  but  tne  presence  in  all  the  others 
of  one  line — mostly  the  second  in  the  verse — which  flows 
continuously,  with  only  an  aspirate  pause  in  the  middle, 
like  that  before  the  short  line  in  the  Sapphic  Adonis,  while 
the  fifth  has  at  the  middle  pause  no  similarity  of  sound 
with  any  part  beside,  gives  the  versification  an  entirely 
different  effect." 

This  exquisite  specimen  of  hypercritical  criticism,  made 
up  of  words  of  "  learned  length  and  thundering  sound," 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  85 

is  given  as  one  of  the  curiosities  of  American  literature. 
The  writer,  no  doubt,  thought  he  was  paying  a  high  com 
pliment  to  "  The  Raven,"  when  he  kindly  pronounced  it 
a  "  felicitous  specimen  of  rhyming''  Then  his  brilliant 
suggestion  in  reference  to  placing  the  verses  in  "short 
lines,"  reminds  us  irresistibly  that  the  writer  could  not 
have  been  long  out  of  his  short  clothes.  But  the  simple 
fact  that  Edgar  A.  Poe  was  paid  only  ten  dollars  for  a 
poem  that  has  brought  more  honor  upon  American  liter 
ature  than  all  the  rest  of  American  poetry  combined,  a 
poem  that  has  been  proclaimed  a  masterpiece  of  genius 
by  the  scholars  of  the  world,  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  show 
how  incapable  the  editor  of  The  American  Review  was  of 
appreciating  the  genius  of  "The  Raven."  For  the  re 
cently  discovered  early  poem  of  Foe's,  "  Alone,"  Scrib- 
ncrs  Magazine  paid  twice  as  much  as  Poe  received  for  his 
masterpiece. 

/  It  has  been  truly  said  that  the  first  perusal  of  "The 
Raven"  leaves  no  distinct  understanding,  but  fascinates 
the  reader  with  a  strange  and  thrilling  interest.  It  pro 
duces  upon  the  mind  and  heart  a  vague  impression  of 
fate,  of  mystery,  of  hopeless  sorrow.  It  sounds  like  the 
utterance  of  a  full  heart,  poured  out — not  for  the  sake 
of  telling  its  sad  story  to  a  sympathizing  ear — but  because 
he  is  mastered  by  his  emotions,  and  cannot  help  giving 
vent  to  themyMt  more  resembles  the  soliloquies  of  Ham 
let,  in  whicn  he  betrays  his  struggling  thoughts  and  feel- 


86  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

ings,  and  in  which  he  reveals  the  workings  of  his  soul, 
stirred  to  its  utmost  depth  by  his  terrible  forebodings. 

An  American  scholar*  has  furnished  the  most  admira 
ble  critique  of  "The  Raven"  that  has  yet  been  given  to 
the  world.  After  assigning  to  Poe  a  place  in  that  illus 
trious  procession  of  classical  poets  which  includes  the 
names  of  Milton,  Ben  Jonson,  Herrick,  Shelley,  and 
Keats,  he  says  of  "The  Raven":  "No  poem  in  our 
language  presents  a  more  graceful  grouping  of  metrical 
appliances  and  devices.  The  power  of  peculiar  letters  is 
evolved  with  a  magnificent  touch  ;  the  thrill  of  the  liquids 
is  a  characteristic  feature,  not  only  of  the  refrain,  but 
throughout  the  compass  of  the  poem;  their  "linked 
sweetness,  long  drawn  out,"  falls  with  a  mellow  cadence, 
revealing  the  poet's  mastery  of  those  mysterious  harmo 
nies  which  lie  at  the  basis  of  human  speech.  The  con 
tinuity  of  the  rhythm,  illustrating  Milton's  ideal  of  true 
musical  delight,  in  which  the  sense  is  variously  drawn  out 
from  one  verse  into  another  ;  the  alliteration  of  the  Norse 
minstrel  and  the  Saxon  bard  ;  the  graphic  delineation  and 
the  sustained  interest,  are  some  of  the  features  which 
place  'The  Raven'  foremost  among  the  creations  of  a 
poetic  art  in  our  age  and  clime." 

Edgar  Poe  was  not  one  of  those  poets,  like  Addison, 
"born  to  write  and  live  with  ease  ;"  but  modern  readers 

*  Professor  Henry  E.  Shepherd,  of  Baltimore. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  87 

find  Addison's  "easy  writing,  hard  reading."  The  truth 
is  that  the  affectation  of  easy  writing  is  no  longer  in 
fashion.  It  is  now  universally  admitted  that  in  poetry,  as_^ 
in  all  other  human  pursuits,  what  is  rare  and  valuable  is 
seldom  obtainable  without  patient  labor.  "Genius  is 
patience,"  says  the  great  Chateaubriand.  There  never 
was  a  more  patient  genius  than  Edgar  A.  Poe.  He  be 
stowed  both  time  and  pains  upon  his  work.  After  he  had 
planned  "The  Raven,"  a  poem  which  few  minds  beside 
his  own  could  have  conceived,  he  clothed  it  in  a  style 
and  language  whose  force  and  affluence  have  seldom,  if 
ever,  been  surpassed.  Professor  Shepherd,  the  American 
scholar  alreafy  quoted  in  this  chapter,  alludes  with  classic 
beauty  and  grace  to  this  subject  of  patience,  when  he  says  : 
"The  Athenian  sculptor,  in  the  palmiest  days  of  Grecia"n 
art,  wrought  out  his  loveliest  conceptions  by  the  painful 
processes  of  unflagging  diligence.  The  angel  was  not 
evolved  from  the  block  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  or  a  bril 
liant  flash  of  unpremeditated  art.  No  finer  illustration 
of  conscious  art  has  been  produced  in  our  century  thai* 
'The  Raven.'"  ^^^^ 

Poe's  own  account  of  the  composition  of  his  master 
piece  is  one  of  the  strangest  revelations  that  any  author 
has  ever  given  to  the  world  ;  indeed,  it '  would  be  in 
credible  if  told  by  any  other  person  than  the  poet  him 
self.  Setting  out  with  the  intention  of  composing  a  poem 
that  should  suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the  critical 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

taste,  and  keeping  originality  always  in  view,}  the  work 
proceeded,  says  Poe,  step  by  step  to  its  completion,  with 

the  precision  and  rigid  consequence  of  a  mathematical 

problem.  One  of  Poe's  peculiar  theories  being  that  a 
long  poem  does  not  and  cannot  exist,  he  limited  his 
-—-.poem  to  one  hundred  and  eight  lines.,..  He  next  con 
sidered  the  impression,  or  effect,  to  be  produced,  and 
he  declares  that  he  kept  steadily  in  view  the  design  of 

^Tendering  the  work  universally  appreciable.  Regarding 
beauty  as  the  only  legitimate  province  of  the  poem,  and 

.  sadness  as  the  highest  manifestation  of  its  tone,  he  selected 
V  the  idea  of  a  lover  lamenting  the  death  of  his  beautiful 
\  beloved  as  the  groundwork  of  the  poem.  He  then  be 
thought  himself  of  some  key-note,  some  pivot,  upon 
which  the  whole  structure  might  turn,  and  decided  upon 
the  refrain  ;  determining  to  produce  continuously  novel 
effects  by  the  variation  of  the  application  of  the  refrain, 
the  refrain  itself  remaining,  for  the  most  part,  unvaried. 
The  next  thing  in  order  was  to  select  a  word  which  would 
be  in  the  'fullest  possible  keeping  with  the  melancholy 
tone  of  the  poem.  The  word  "  nevermore  "  was  the  very 
first  that  presented  itself.  Then  it  was  necessary  to  have 
some  pretext  for  the  repetition  of  the  one  word  "  never 
more."  The  poet  says  he  saw  at  once  that  it  would  not 
do  to  put  the  monotonous  word  in  the  mouth  of  a  human 
being.  Immediately  the  idea  arose  of  a  non- reasoning  crea 
ture  capable  of  speech,  and  very  naturally  a  parrot,  in  the 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  09 

first  instance,  suggested  itself;  but  was  superseded  forth 
with  by  a  raven,  as  equally  capable  of  speech,  and  infi 
nitely  more  in  keeping  with  the  intended  melancholy  tone. 

Having,  then,  decided  upon  the  rhythm  of  the  poem, 
the  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of  bringing 
together  the  lover  and  the  raven.  The  poet  determined  to 
place  the  lover  in  the  chamber  rendered  sacred  by  memories 
of  her  who  had  frequented  it.  The  bird  was  next  to  be  in 
troduced.  The  night  was  made  tempestuous,  to  account 
for  the  raven's  seeking  admission,  and  also  for  the  effect 
of  contrast  with  the  physical  serenity  within  the  chamber. 
The  bird  was  made  to  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also 
for  the  effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble  and  the 
plumage,  the  bust  of  Pallas  being  chosen  as  most  in  keep 
ing  with  the  scholarship  of  the  lover. 

The  poem  then  proceeds,  in  mournful  but  melodious 
numbers,  to  the  denouement,  when  we  are  told  the  soul  of 
the  unhappy  poet,  from  out  the  shadow  of  the  raven,  that 
lies  floating  on  the  floor,  shall  be  lifted  nevermore. 

This  is  a  mere  outline  of  Poe's  masterly  analysis  of  his 
most  extraordinary  poem.  The  world  should  be  grateful 
to  our  poet  for  his  "confidential  disclosures"  in  regard  to 
"The  Raven."  With  what  delight  would  not  the  world 
have  welcomed  Shakespeare's  own  account  of  the  con 
ception  and  composition  of  "Lear,"  of  "  Macbeth,"  of 
"Hamlet"! 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  "The  Raven,"  the  longest 


go  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

and  most  elaborate  of  all  Poe's  poems,  is  the  only  one 
that  was  never  changed  or  altered  by  the  author.  Several 
editions  were  published  during  Poe's  lifetime,  but  not  a 
stanza,  not  a  line,  not  a  word  was  changed  ;  as  it  was 
first  printed  in  The  American  Review,  so  it  has  ever  been 
printed.  The  author  was  satisfied  with  his  work. 

"  The  Raven  "  established  Poe's  fame  as  the  most  origi 
nal  poet  of  America,  and  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  poets  of  the  world.  The  Edinburgh  Review,  in  a  very 
harsh  article,  says:  "'The  Raven'  has  taken  rank  all 
over  the  world  as  the  very  first  poem  yet  produced  on  the 
American  Continent."  This  poem  has  been  translated 
into  most  of  the  modern  and  several  of  the  ancient 
languages.  Stephane  Mallarme,  who  has  quite  recently 
translated  and  published  a  superbly  illustrated  edition  of 
"  The  Raven  "  in  Paris,  sent  Mrs.  Whitman  a  copy  of  the 
volume,  and  a  highly  appreciative  letter,  from  which  I 
have  been  permitted  to  make  the  following  extracts  : 

"Whatever  is  done  to  honor  the  memory  of  a  genius 
the  most  truly  divine  the  world  has  seen,  ought  it  not 
first  to  obtain  your  sanction  ?  Such  of  Poe's  works  as  our 
great  Baudelaire  has  left  untranslated,  this  is  to  say,  the 
poems,  and  many  of  the  critical  fragments,  I  hope  to  make 
known  to  France,  and  my  first  attempt  ('The  Raven') 
is  intended  to  attract  attention  to  a  future  work,  now 
nearly  completed.  .  .  .  Fascinated  with  the  works  of 
Poe  from  my  infancy,  it  is  already  a  very  long  time 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  9! 

since  your  name  became  associated  with  his  in  my  ear 
liest  and  most  intimate  sympathies."  In  a  letter  ad 
dressed  to  one  of  his  relations  in  Baltimore,  a  few  months 
after  the  appearance  of  "  The  Raven,"  Edgar  Poe  alludes 
with  just  pride  to  the  renown  which  his  poetical  reputa 
tion  had  conferred  upon  the  family  name.  A  writer  in 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  declared,  with  equal  truth 
and  beauty,  that  on  the  dusky  wings  of  "The  Raven/' 
Edgar  A.  Poe  will  sail  securely  over  the  gulf  of  oblivion 
to  the  eternal  shore. 


92  LIFE   OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 


CHAPTER  X. 
1846-1847* 

POE'S  BRILLIANT  REPUTATION.  —  His  FRIENDS.  —  His  SWEET 
HOME  LIFE. — HE  WRITES  "  THE  LITERATI  OF  NEW  YORK." 
— REMOVES  TO  FORDHAM. — DEATH  OF  HIS  WIFE. 

|N  the  winter  of  1845-6.  the  literary  reputation  of 
Edgar  A.  Poe  had  attained  its  greatest  brillian 
cy.  During  that  time,  he  resided  at  85  Amity 
Street,  New  York.  A  cousin  of  the  poet,  who  visited  him 
that  winter,  has  told  me  that  Edgar,  Virginia,  and  Mrs. 
Clemm  formed  the  happiest  little  family  he  had  ever  seen. 
Edgar  was  sick  at  the  time  of  this  visit,  and  the  visitor 
was  invited  to  his  chamber.  The  poet  was  reclining  on 
a  lounge,  with  Virginia  and  Mrs.  Clemm  in  devoted  at 
tendance  upon  him.  A  small  table  by  his  side  held  a 
bouquet  of  sweet  flowers,  two  or  three  books,  and  some 
delicacies.  Mrs.  Osgood,  Miss  Anna  Lynch,  and  Mrs. 
Lewis  called.  Edgar  Poe  lying  sick  upon  his  lounge  was 
the  center  of  attraction.  The  conversation,  in  such  com 
pany,  naturally  took  a  literary  turn.  The  invalid  poet 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  93 

directed  it,  and  all  listened,  enchanted  by  his  low,  musi 
cal  voice,  and  the  brilliant  play  of  his  imagination. 

Poe's  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Frances  Sargent  Osgood 
commenced  soon  after  the  publication  of  "The  Raven." 
That  accomplished  woman,  a  few  weeks  before  her  early 
death,  wrote  an  account  of  their  first  meeting  and  subse 
quent  intimacy.  She  says  :  "  My  first  meeting  with  the 
poet  was  at  the  Astor  House.  A  few  days  previous,  Mr. 
Willis  had  handed  me,  at  the  table  d'hote,  that  strange  and 
thrilling  poem,  'The  Raven.'  Its  effect  upon  me  was 
so  singular,  so  like  that  of  weird,  unearthly  music,  that  it 
was  with  a  feeling  almost  of  dread  I  heard  he  desired  an 
introduction.  I  shall  never  forget  the  morning  when  I 
was  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  by  Mr.  Willis,  to 
receive  him.  With  his  proud  and  beautiful  head  erect, 
his  dark  eyes  flashing  with  the  electric  light  of  feeling  and 
thought,  a  peculiar  and  inimitable  blending  of  sweetness 
and  hauteur  in  his  expression  and  manner,  he  greeted  me 
calmly,  gravely,  almost  coldly,  yet  with  so  sweet  an  ear 
nestness  that  I  could  not  help  being  deeply  impressed  by 
it.  From  that  moment  until  his  death  we  were  friends. 
Of  the  charming  love  and  confidence  that  existed  between 
his  wife  and  himself  I  cannot  speak  too  earnestly,  too 
warmly.  It  was  in  his  own  simple  yet  poetical  home 
that,  to  me,  the  character  of  Edgar  Poe  appeared  in  its 
most  beautiful  light.  Playful,  affectionate,  witty ;  alter 
nately  docile  and  wayward  as  a  petted  child  ;  for  his 


94  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

young,  gentle,  and  idolized  wife,  and  for  all  who  came, 
he  had,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  most  harassing  literary 
duties,  a  kind  word,  a  pleasant  smile,  a  graceful  and 
courteous  attention.  At  his  desk,  beneath  the  romantic 
picture  of  his  loved  Lenore,  he  would  sit,  hour  after 
hour,  patient,  assiduous,  and  uncomplaining,  tracing  in 
an  exquisitely  clear  chirograph^,  and  with  almost  super 
human  swiftness,  the  lightning  thoughts,  the  '  rare  and 
radiant'  fancies,  as  they  flashed  through  his  wonderful  and 
ever-wakeful  brain.  I  recollect  one  morning,  toward 
the  close  of  his  residence  in  New  York,  when  he  seemed 
unusually  gay  and  light-hearted.  Virginia,  his  sweet 
wife,  had  written  me  a  pressing  invitation  to  come  to 
them  ;  and  I,  who  never  could  resist  her  affectionate 
summons,  and  who  enjoyed  his  society  far  more  in  his 
own  home  than  elsewhere,  hastened  to  Amity  Street. 
I  found  him  just  completing  his  series  of  papers  entitled 
'The  Literati  of  New  York/  'See/  said  he,  display 
ing  in  laughing  triumph  several  little  rolls  of  narrow 
paper  (he  always  wrote  thus  for  the  press)  ;  '  I  am  going 
to  show  you,  by  the  difference  of  length  in  these,  the  dif 
ferent  degrees  of  estimation  in  which  I  hold  all  you  liter 
ary  people.  In  each  of  these  one  of  you  is  rolled  up  and 
fully  discussed.  Come,  Virginia,  help  me/  One  by  one 
they  unfolded  them.  At  last  they  came  to  one  which 
seemed  interminable.  Virginia  laughingly  ran  to  one 
corner  of  the  room  with  one  end,  and  her  husband  to 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE.  95 

the  other.  'And  whose  lengthened  sweetness  long  drawn 
out  is  that? '  said  I.  '  Hear  her  ! '  he  cried,  'just  as  if  her 
vain  little  heart  didn't  tell  her  it's  herself!  " 

In  May,  1845,  while  still  conjucting  The  Broad-way 
Journal^  Poe  began  his  celebrated  critical  papers,  "The 
Literati  of  New  York,"  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  of  Phila 
delphia.  The  series  commenced  with  George  Bush,  and 
terminated  with  Richard  Adams  Locke,  making  thirty- 
eight  in  all.  The  majority  of  these  "  literati"  have  long 
since  passed  into  merited  oblivion.  An  immense  impetus 
was  given  to  the  Lady's  Book  by  the  publication  of  these 
papers.  People  read  it  who  had  never  read  it  before. 
Poe  caused  as  much  terror  among  the  literary  pigmies  as 
Gulliver  caused  among  the  Lilliputian  pigmies.  As  a 
natural  result  of  such  unsparing  criticism  he  made  a 
"host  of  enemies  among  persons  toward  whom  he  enter 
tained  no  personal  ill-will."  "  It  was  his  sensitiveness  to 
artistic  imperfections  rather  than  any  malignity  of  feeling 
that  made  him  so  severe  a  critic."  It  has  been  suggest 
ed  that  an  appropriate  escutcheon  for  Edgar  Poe  would 
have  been  the  crest  of  Brian  de  Bois  Gilbert — a  raven  in 
full  flight,  holding  in  its  claws  a  skull,  and  bearing  the 
motto,  * '  Gare  le  Corbeau." 

As  the  spring  of  1846  advanced,  the  health  of  Mrs.  Poe 
continued  to  decline,  and  fearing  the  effects  of  the  pros 
trating  summer  heat  of  the  city  upon  the  feeble  health  of 
the  lovely  and  loved  invalid,  it  was  determined  to  remove 


96  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

to  the  country.  The  pretty  little  village  of  Fordham  was 
chosen  for  the  home  of  the  delicate  wife.  A  tiny  Dutch 
cottage  was  rented.  It  was  on  the  top  of  a  picturesque 
hill,  a  pretty,  romantic  spot ;  the  antiquated  little  house 
was  half  buried  in  fruit  trees.  This  new  home  was  small 
enough,  only  boasting  four  rooms,  two  below  and  two 
above  ;  but  it  was  cool,  quiet,  and  away  from  the  noise 
and  vexations  of  New  York.  The  parlor  was  used  by 
Poe  as  a  study.  Here  he  wrote  "  Ulalume,"  "Eureka," 
and  other  productions  of  his  "lonesome  latter  years." 
This  room  was  furnished  with  exquisite  neatness  and  sim 
plicity.  The  floor  was  laid  with  red  and  white  matting  ; 
four  cane-seat  chairs,  a  light  table,  a  set  of  hanging  book 
shelves,  and  two  or  three  fine  engravings,  completed  the 
furniture. 

A  gentleman  who  visited  Poe  at  Fordham,  in  1846, 
says:  "The  cottage  had  an  air  of  taste  and  gentility  that 
must  have  been  lent  to  it  by  the  presence  of  its  inmates. 
So  neat,  so  poor,  so  unfurnished,  and  yet  so  charming  a 
dwelling  I  never  saw.  There  was  an  acre  or  two  of 
greensward  fenced  in  about  the  house,  as  smooth  as  velvet, 
and  as  clean  as  the  best  kept  carpet.  Mr.  Poe  was  so  hand 
some,  so  impassive  in  his  wonderful,  intellectual  beauty, 
so  proud  and  reserved,  so  entirely  a  gentleman  upon  all 
occasions — so  good  a  talker  was  he  that  he  impressed 
himself  and  his  wishes  even  without  words  upon  those 
with  whom  he  spoke,  His  voice  was  melody  itself.  He 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  97 

always  spoke  low,  even  in  a  violent  discussion,  compel 
ling  his  hearers  to  listen  if  they  would  know  his  opinion, 
his  facts,  fancies,  or  philosophy.  Mrs.  Poe  looked  very 
young  ;  she  had  large  black  eyes,  and  a  pearly  whiteness 
of  complexion,  which  was  a  perfect  pallor.  Her  pale 
face,  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  her  raven  hair,  gave  her  an 
unearthly  look.  One  felt  that  she  was  almost  a  disrobed 
spirit,  and  when  she  coughed  it  was  made  certain  that  she 
was  rapidly  passing  away." 

As  the  winter  of  1846-7  approached,  the  affairs  of  the 
little  Fordham  household  grew  desperate.  The  sickness 
of  his  wife  and  his  own  ill  health  at  this  time  incapaci 
tated  Poe  from  literary  work,  his  only  source  of  revenue, 
and,  consequently,  the  family  were  reduced  to  the  last 
extremity,  wanting  even  the  barest  necessaries  of  life — at 
a  time,  too,  when  Mrs.  Poe  required  the  little  delicacies 
so  grateful  to  the  sick.  It  was  at  this  time  that  N.  P. 
Willis  made,  in  The  Home  Journal,  his  generous  appeal 
in  behalf  of  his  friend  and  brother  poet.  In  the  course 
of  his  article  Mr.  Willis  said :  "  Here  is  one  of  the  finest 
scholars,  one  of  the  most  original  men  of  genius,  and  one 
of  the  most  industrious  of  the  literary  profession  of  our 
country  ;  whose  temporary  suspension  of  labor,  from 
bodily  illness,  drops  him  immediately  to  a  level  with  the 
common  objects  of  public  charity.  There  is  no  interme 
diate  stopping-place,  no  respectful  shelter,  where,  with  the 
delicacy  due  to  genius  and  culture,  he  might  secure  aid, 
5 


98  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

till,  with  returning  health,  he  could  resume  his  labors, 
and  his  unmortified  sense  of  independence."  This  article 
was  gratefully  acknowledged  by  Poe,  in  a  letter  dated  De 
cember  30,  1846.  in  which,  afteralluding  to  Willis's  "kind 
and  manly  comments  in  The  Home  Journal"  he  says: 
"That  my  wife  is  ill  is  true,  and  you  may  imagine  with 
what  feeling  I  add  that  this  illness,  hopeless  from  the  first, 
has  been  heightened  and  precipitated  by  her  reception,  at 
two  different  periods,  of  anonymous  letters.  That  I  my 
self  have  been  long  and  dangerously  ill,  and  that  my  ill 
ness  has  been  a  well-understood  thing  among  my  brethren 
of  the  press,  the  best  evidence  is  afforded  by  the  innumer 
able  paragraphs  of  personal  and  literary  abuse  with  which 
I  have  been  lately  assailed.  This  matter,  however,  will 
remedy  itself.  At  the  very  blush  of  my  new  prosperity  the 
gentlemen  who  toadied  me  in  the  old  will  recollect  them 
selves  and  toady  me  again.  That  I  am  '  without  friends/ 
is  a  gross  calumny,  which  I  am  sure  you  never  could  have 
believed,  and  which  a  thousand  noble-hearted  men  would 
have  good  right  never  to  forgive,  for  permitting  to  pass 
unnoticed  and  undenied.  I  am  getting  better,  and  may 
add,  if  it  is  any  comfort  to  my  enemies,  that  I  have  little 
fear  of  getting  worse.  The  truth  is,  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
do,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  die  till  it  is  done. " 
Exactly  one  month  from  the  date  of  this  letter,  that  is, 
on  the  3Oth  of  January,  1847,  the  loved  wife  died.  Her 
death-bed  was  the  witness  of  a  scene  as  sad  and  pathetic 


LIFE    OB'    EDGAR    A.  POE.  99 

as  ever  told  by  poet  or  romance  writer.  The  weather  was 
cold,  and  Mrs.  Poe  suffered  also  from  the  chills  that  fol 
low  the  hectic  fever  of  consumption.  The  bed  was  of 
straw,  and  was  covered  only  with  a  spread  and  sheets,  no 
blanket.  Here  the  dying  lady  lay,  wrapped  in  her  hus 
band's  overcoat,  with  a  large  tortoise-shell  cat  in  her 
bosom.  The  coat  and  the  cat  afforded  the  only  warmth 
to  the  sufferer,  except  that  imparted  by  her  mother  chafing 
her  feet  and  her  husband  her  hands.  And  thus  died,  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-five,  the  wife  of  America's  greatest 
genius. 

This  loss,  though  long  expected,  was  not  the  less 
crushing  when  it  came  at  last.  To  a  lady  of  Massa 
chusetts,  who  had  sent  him  expressions  of  sympathy, 
Edgar  Poe  wrote,  a  few  weeks  after  the  death  of  his  wife  : 
"I  was  overwhelmed  by. a  sorrow  so  poignant  as  to  de 
prive  me,  for  several  weeks,  of  all  power  of  thought  or 
action."  Mrs.  Clemm  told  me  that  "  Eddie"  often  wan 
dered  to  his  wife's  grave  at  midnight,  in  the  snow  and 
rain,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  mound  of  earth,  calling 
upon  her  in  words  of  devoted  love,  and  invoking  her 
gentle  spirit  to  watch  over  him. 


IOO  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A. POE. 


CHAPTER  XL 

1847-1848. 

THE  EFFECT  OF  VIRGINIA'S  DEATH. — HE  WRITES  "  ULALUME." — 
"EUREKA." — The  Stylus  AGAIN. 

[OR  weeks  and  months  after  his  wife's  death,  Ed 
gar  Poe  was  buried  in  an  agony  of  grief,  from 
which  nothing  could  arouse  him.  His  books, 
his  studies  were  abandoned  ;  his  pen  was  thrown  aside  ; 
his  usual  occupation  was  neglected.  He  wandered  aim 
lessly  about  the  country  by  day,- and  at  night  kept  long 
and  solitary  vigil  at  the  grave  of  his  "lost  Lenore." 
He  seemed  to  anticipate  the  death  of  his  wife  in  that  line 
of  ll The  Raven"  where  he  says,  "My  soul  from  out 
that  shadow  shall  be  lifted  nevermore."  It  never  was 
lifted.  After  the  loss  of  his  wife,  Poe  was  a  changed 
man.  He,  who  never  laughed  and  rarely  smiled  before, 
might  now  almost  be  said  to  have  "  never  smiled' again." 
But  the  most  melancholy  effect  of  this  crushing  grief  was 
the  resort  to  stimulants,  hoping  to  drown  his  sorrows  in 
the  waters  of  Lethe.  Fatal  delusion  !  Lethe  proved, 
indeed,  a  river  of  hell  to  the  unhappy  poet.  It  was  not 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  IOt 

for  pleasure  that  he  thus  sank  his  noble  intellect.  6<JI 
have  absolutely  no  pleasure  in  the  stimulants  in  which  I 
sometimes  so  madly  indulge/'  he  wrote  within  a  year  of 
his  death.  "  It  has  not  been  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure 
that 'I  have  periled  life  and  reputation  and  reason.  It 
has  been  in  the  desperate  attempt  to  escape  from  tortur 
ing  memories,  from  a  sense  of  insupportable  loneliness,  and 
a  dread  of  some  strange,  impending  doom." 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  "mad  indul 
gence  "  was  habitual.  It  was  only  sometimes,  only  when 
driven  to  despair  by  "intolerable  sorrow,"  that  he  was 
guilty  of  follies  and  excesses,  "which,"  as  he  very  natur 
ally  complained,  "are  hourly  committed  by  others  with 
out  attracting  any  notice  whatever."  It  is  very  easy  for 
people  who  sit  down  to  a  sumptuous  dinner  every  day  to 
abuse  our  poor,  lonely,  unhappy  poet.  It  is  very  easy 
for  people  who  are  surrounded  by  all  the  luxuries  of  life 
to  condemn  Edgar  Poe  as  a  drunkard  ;  whereas,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  he  was  not  drunk  so  often  as  they  have 
been — they  for  sensual  gratification,  he  driven  to  it  by 
misery  and  despair. 

Poe  was  conscious  that  he  possessed  genius ;  how 
could  the  possessor  of  so  grand  a  genius  be  ignorant  of 
it  ?  He  had  adorned  his  country's  literature  with  works 
which  the  world  has  pronounced  immortal.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  his  wealth  of  genius,  perhaps  on  account  of  it,  he  was 
so  poor  that  he  could  not  comfort  his  sick  and  dying  wife 


IO2  LIFE   OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 


with  the  most  trifling  delicacy.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
people  who  daily  enjoy  the  best  wines  to  condemn  Poe 
for  being  bitter  and  morbid,  when  he  could  not  afford  a 
glass  of  wine  to  warm  the  chill  body  of  his  idolized  dar 
ling.  Poverty,  disappointment,  and  sorrow  wrought  their 
worst  upon  him.  He  experienced  to  the  utmost  "the 
stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune."  But  the  death 
of  his  wife  was  the  crowning  sorrow  of  his  life,  the  crush 
ing  blow  from  which  he  never  entirely  recovered. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  in  which  he  lost  his  wife, 
Poe  wrote  that  strange,  fascinating  poem,  "Ulalume." 
It  first  appeared  in  The  American  Review  for  December, 

1847.  Willis  copied  it  in  The  Home  Journal,  January  i, 

1848,  with  the  following  notice  :    "We  do  not  know  how 
many  readers  we  have  who  will  enjoy  as  we  do  this  ex 
quisitely  piquant  and  skillful  exercise  of  variety  and  nice- 
ness  of  language.     It  is  a  poem  full  of  beauty — a  curi 
osity  (and  a  delicious  one,  we  think)  in  philologic  flavor." 
When  Willis  wrote  this  notice,  he  did  not  know  that  Poe 
was  the  author  of  the  poem.     An  enthusiastic  writer  de 
scribes  "  Ulalume  "   as  a  piece  of  perfect  witchery  pro 
duced  by  words  :  the  conjuror  poet  waves  the  wand  of 
his  enchantment,  and,  by  the  mystic  charm   of  those  few 
verses,   solemn,   lantern-like  phantasmagoria,   effects    of 
light  and  shade  ;  dreamy  pictures  ;  intoxication,  as  if  from 
a  charmed  chalice  ;  something  luxurious,  we  know  not 
what,  form  a  spell,  which  works  as  the  "Arabian  Nights  " 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  103 

on  the  brain  of  a  child  ;  indeed,  a  whole  world  is  created. 
Is  not  this  the  great  art  of  the  poet  ?  He  keeps  hidden 
the  means  ;  the  effect  only  is  understood. 

An  English  writer,  after  quoting  the  opening  stanzas 
of  "Ulalume,"  says  :  "These  to  many  will  appear  only 
words,  but  what  wondrous  words  !  What  a  spell  they 
wield  !  What  a  weird  unity  there  is  in  them  !  The 
instant  they  are  uttered,  a  misty  picture,  with  a  tarn,  dark 
as  a  murderer's  eye,  below,  and  the  thin,  yellow  leaves  of 
October  fluttering  above,  exponents  of  a  misery  which 
scorns  the  name  of  sorrow,  is  hung  up  in  the  chambers 
of  your  soul  forever."  Mrs.  Whitman,  in  speaking  of 
the  strange  threnody  of  "  Ulal.ume,"  says  :  "This  poem, 
perhaps  the  most  original  and  weirdly  suggestive  of  all 
his  poems,  resembles,  at  first  sight,  scftne  of  Turner's  land 
scapes,  being  apparently  '  without  form  and  void,  and  hav 
ing  darkness  on  the  face  of  it.  "  It  is,  nevertheless,  in 
its  basis,  although  not  in  the  precise  correspondence  of 
time,  simply  historical.  Such  was  the  poet's  lonely  mid 
night  walk  ;  such,  amid  the  desolate  memories  and  scene 
ries  of  the  hour,  was  the  new-born  hope  enkindled  within 
his  heart  at  fcght  of  the  morning  star — 

"  Astarte's  be-diamond  crescent" — 

looming  up  as  the  beautiful  harbinger  of  love  and  hap 
piness,  yet  awaiting  him  in  the  untried  future  ;  and  such 
the  sudden  transition  of  feeling,  the  boding  dread,  that 


IO4  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

supervened,  on  discovering  what  had  at  first  been  unnoted, 
that  it  shone,  as  if  in  mockery  or  in  warning,  directly  over 
the  sepulcher  of  the  lost  "  Ulalume." 

' '  Ulalume  "  was  the  only  piece  published  by  Poe  in  the 
year  1847,  ms  "  most  immemorial  year."  During  almost 
this  entire  period  he  remained  at  his  quiet  cottage  home 
in  Fordham.  Mrs.  Clemm,  who  shared  his  grief  for  their 
household  darling,  devoted  herself  thenceforth  exclusively 
to  him.  He  testified  to  the  kindness  of  his  "dear  Mud- 
die,  "as  he  affectionately  called  her,  in  a  beautiful  sonnet, 
in  which  he  says  she  had  been  "  more  than  mother"  to 
him. 

But,  although  Poe  published  only  one  piece  in  1847, 
it  must  not  be  supposed  that  his  busy  brain  was  idle.  It 
was  during  the  autumn  and  early  winter  of  that  year  that 
"  Eureka  "  was  planned,  thought  out,  and,  in  part,  writ 
ten.  To  the  composition  of  this  work  Poe  brought  the 
matured  powers  of  his  marvelous  intellect ;  all  the  enthu 
siasm,  all  the  earnestness  of  his  passionately  intellectual 
•nature  was  thrown  into  it.  Mrs.  Clemm  told  me  that  while 
engaged  upon  this  extraordinary  prose  poem,  he  would 
walk  up  and  down  the  porch  in  front  of  tbfc  cottage,  in 
the  coldest  nights  of  December,  with  an  overcoat  thrown 
over  his  shoulders,  contemplating  the  stars,  and  "ponder 
ing  the  deep  problems  "  of  the  universe,  until  long  after 
midnight. 

By  the  middle  of  January,  1848,   the  work  had  pro- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  IC>5 

gressed  so  far  that  Poe  announced  his  intention  of  de 
livering  a  series  of  lectures,  commencing  February  3d, 
with  "  Eureka,"  or  "  The  Universe/'  as  it  was  first  called. 
His  aim  and  object  will  be  found  in  the  following  letter 
addressed  to  N.  P.  Willis  : 

"FORDHAM,  January  22,  1848. 
"My  DEAR  MR.  WILLIS: 

"  I  am  about  to  make  an  effort  at  re-establishing  my 
self  in  the  literary  world,  and/ft?/ that  I  may  depend  upon 
your  aid. 

"My  general  aim  is  to  start  a  magazine,  to  be  called 
The  Stylus  ;  but  it  would  be  useless  to  me,  even  when  es 
tablished,  if  not  entirely  out  of  the  control  of  a  publisher. 
I  mean,  therefore,  to  get  up  a  journal  which  shall  be  my  own, 
at  all  points.  With  this  end  in  view,  I  must  get  a  list  of 
at  least  five  hundred  subscribers  to  begin  with — nearly  two 
hundred  I  have  already.  I  propose,  however,  to  go  South 
and  West  among  my  personal  and  literary  friends — old 
college  and  West  Point  acquaintances — and  see  what  I  can 
do.  In  order  to  get  the  means  of  taking  the  first  step, 
I  propose  to  lecture  at  the  Society  Library,  on  Thursday, 
the  3d  of  February,  and,  that  there  may  be  no  cause  of 
squabbling,  my  subject  shall  not  be  literary  at  all.  I  have 
chosen  a  broad  text,  The  Universe. 

"  Having  thus  given  you  the  facts  of  the  case,  I  leave 
5* 


IO6  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

all  the  rest  to  the  suggestions  of  your  own  tact  and  gen 
erosity.     Gratefully,  most  gratefully, 

"  Your  friend  always, 

"  EDGAR  A,  POE." 

In  response  to  this  letter,  Willis  published,  in  The  Home 
Journal,  the  following  generous  and  appreciative  article : 
"We  by  accident  omitted  to  mention,  in  our  last  week's 
paper,  that  our  friend  and  former  editorial  associate,  Mr. 
Poe,  was  to  deliver  a  lecture,  on  Thursday  evening,  Feb 
ruary  3d,  at  the  Society  Library.  The  subject  is  rather  a 
broad  one,  'The  Universe  ; '  but,  from  a  mind  so  origi 
nal,  no  text  could  furnish  any  clue  to  what  would  proba 
bly  be  the  sermon.  There  is  but  one  thing  certain  about 
it :  that  it  will  be  compact  of  thought,  most  fresh,  startling, 
and  suggestive.  Delivered  under  the  warrant  of  our  friend's 
purely  intellectual  features  and  expression,  such  a  lecture 
as  he  must  write  would  doubtless  be,  to  the  listeners,  a 
mental  treat  of  a  very  unusual  relish  and  point. 

"We  understand  that  the  purpose  of  Mr.  Poe's  lecture 
is  to  raise  the  necessary  capital  for  the  establishment  of  a 
magazine,  which  he  proposes  to  call  The  Stylus.  They 
who  like  literature  without  trammels,  and  criticism  with 
out  gloves,  should  send  in  their  names  forthwith  as  sub 
scribers.  If  there  be  in  the  world  a  born  anatomist  of 
thought,  it  is  Mr.  Poe.  He  takes  genius  and  its  imitators 
to  pieces  with  a  skill  wholly  unequaled  on  either  side  of  the 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  1 07 

water ;  and  neither  in  criticism  nor  in  his  own  most  sin 
gular  works  of  imagination,  does  he  write  a  sentence  that 
is  not  vivid  and  suggestive.  The  severe  afflictions  with 
which  Mr.  Poe  has  been  visited  within  the  last  year  have 
left  him  in  a  position  to  devote  himself,  self-sacrificingly, 
to  his  new  task ;  and,  with  energies  that  need  the  exer 
cise,  he  will  doubtless  give  it  that  most  complete  attention 
which  alone  can  make  such  an  enterprise  successful." 

As  announced,  the  lecture  was  delivered  on  Thursday 
evening,  February  3d,  1848.  The  night  was  stormy,  but 
there  was  present  a  "select  but  highly  appreciative  audi 
ence,  that  remained  attentive  and  interested  for  nearly 
three  hours,  under  the  lecturer's  powerful,  able,  and  pro 
found  analytical  exposition  of  his  peculiar  theory  on  the 
origin,  creation,  and  final  destiny  of  the  universe.  Mr. 
Foe's  delivery  is  pure,  finished,  and  chaste  in  style  ;  his 
power  of  reasoning  is  acute,  and  his  analytical  perceptions 
keen.  The  lecturer  appeared  inspired  ;  his  eyes  seemed 
to  glow  like  those  of  his  own  '  Raven.' " 

The  pecuniary  result  of  this  lecture  did  not  materially 
advance  the  prospects  of  The  Stylus.  Mrs.  Clemm  once 
showed  me  a  book  in  which  were  entered  the  names  of 
the  subscribers  to  The  Stylus.  This  book,  with  several 
letters  and  other  interesting  Poe  papers,  mysteriously  dis 
appeared  after  Mrs.  Clemm's  death,  which  took  place  in 
Baltimore,  February  1 6th,  1871.  The  prospectus  of  The 
Stylus  which  was  published  in  1848  did  not  differ,  in. 


IO8  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    FOE. 

any  essential  particulars,  from  the  prospectus  which  was 
published  in  1843.  Now,  as  then,  the  chief  purpose  of 
the  proposed  magazine  was  to  maintain  a  "  sincere  and 
fearless  opinion/'  an  "  absolutely  independent  criticism," 
guided  by  the  "intelligible  laws  of  art." 


LIFE    OF   EDGAR   A.   POE.  I  Op 


CHAPTER   XII. 

1848. 

PUBLICATION  OF  "  EUREKA." — RESUMES  His  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger. — POE'S  ENGAGEMENT  TO 
MRS.  SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN. — LOVE  LETTERS. — THE 
ENGAGEMENT  BROKEN. — POE  BLAMELESS  IN  THE  MATTER. 

JOE'S  lecture  upon  "The  Universe"  having  failed 
to  draw  an  audience  of  more  than  seventy-five 
persons,  he  determined  to  reach  a  larger  audi 
ence  by  the  publication  of  his  lecture  in  book  form. 
With  this  view,  he  carefully  revised  and  enlarged  it,  and 
late  in  the  spring  of  1848,  it  was  published,  under  the 
name  of  " Eureka."  The  book  was  generally  noticed  in 
the  papers,  magazines,  and  reviews.  "Eureka"  was  the 
most  ambitious  literary  work  Edgar  Poe  ever  wrote,  and 
the  least  successful.  He  expected  much  from  it  in  re 
putation.  He  got  little  from  it  but  abuse.  "Pagan," 
"  Pantheist,"  "  Polytheist,"  were  among  the  epithets  flung 
at  him  by  the  shallow  scribblers  of  the  day. 

In  the  summer  of  this  year  Poe  visited  Richmond,  and 
having  formed  the  acquaintance  of  John  R.  Thompson, 
the  editor  of  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  engaged  to 


110  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

furnish  contributions  to  the  magazine  in  which  his  earli 
est  laurels  were  won.  In  the  September  number  of  The 
Messenger  appeared  his  elaborate  review  of  Mrs.  Estelle 
Anna  Lewis's  poems.  The  October  number  of  The  Mes 
senger  contained  Foe's  celebrated  article  on  "The  Ra 
tionale  of  Verse,"  in  the  opening  of  which  he  alludes, 
rather  strongly,  to  the  inaccuracy,  confusion,  misconcep 
tion,  and  downright  ignorance  generally  prevailing  upon 
a  subject  which  he  pronounces  exceedingly  simple,  and 
"within  the  limits  of  the  commonest  common  sense." 
He  certainly  treats  the  subject  with  much  analytical  acu 
men  ;  but,  as  it  has  been  truly  said,  a  reference  to  the 
carefully  finished,  free,  and  original  style  of  "The  Raven" 
will  furnish  a  practical  illustration  of  Poe's  theory.  The 
admirable  variety,  pause,  and  cadence  of  the  versification 
of  that  poem  could  only  have  emanated  from  a  mind 
well  acquainted  with  the  art.  A  rule  must  govern  the 
use  of  words,  in  order  to  produce  perfect  unity  and  har 
mony,  as  necessarily  as  a  rule  must  be  applied  to  the 
notes  of  music,  in  order  to  produce  the  same  effect. 
Nearly  as  much  scientific  research  is  required  for  the 
attainment  of  the  one  as  of  the  other.  Toward  the  con 
clusion  of  this  article,  Poe  devoted  two  or  three  para 
graphs  to  showing  that  what  are  called  "English  hex 
ameters  "  would  make  much  better  respectable  prose  ;  that, 
in  fact,  the  English  language  cannot  be  turned  or  twisted 
into  the  Greek  hexameters. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  I  I  1 

Early  in  the  spring  of  1845,  Poe  was  returning  to  New 
York  from  Boston,  where  he  had  been  invited  to  deliver 
a  poem,  and  stopped  at  Providence.  Late  at  night,  he 
was  strolling  through  the  moonlit  streets  of  the  city,  and 
saw  a  lady  walking  in  a  beautiful  garden.  The  time,  the 
scene,  the  circumstances,  all  made  an  indelible  impres 
sion  upon  the  mind  of  the  poet.  Three  years  passed, 
during  which  time  he  did  not  see  again  the  lady.  In  the 
summer  of  1848,  he  addressed  to  her  the  exquisite  poem, 
commencing, 

"  I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago." 

The  lady  who  had  so  profoundly  interested  the  poetical 
soul  of  Edgar  Poe  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  women 
of  New  England,  the  gifted  poetess,  Mrs.  Sarah  Helen 
Whitman,  of  Providence,  R.  I.  Up  to  this  time  they 
had  never  met,  though  they  had  many  friends  in  com 
mon.  This  poem,  "To  Helen,"  conveyed  to  her  the 
first  intelligence  of  the  fact  that  she  had  awakened  a  feel 
ing  of  interest  in  the  poet's  heart.  It  was  not  until  early 
in  the  autumn  of  1848  that  Edgar  Poe  and  Mrs.  Whit 
man  became  personally  acquainted.  She  had  long 
admired  the  extraordinary  genius  of  the  poet.  She  soon 
learned  to  value  the  generous,  enthusiastic,  chivalrous 
heart  of  the  man.  In  spite  of  the  opposition  of  Mrs. 
Whitman's  relations,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  her 
friends,  she  became  engaged  to  Edgar  Poe  in  October  of 


I  12  LIFE    OF   EDGAR    A.   POE. 

this  same  year,  1848.  This  engagement  was  the  silver 
lining  to  the  dark  cloud  that  overspread  the  latter  years 
of  our  poet's  life.  It  opened  a  prospect  of  happiness  for 
him — even  for  him,  the  desolate  and  despairing.  Like  the 
gleam  of  light  that  cheered  Sinbad  in  the  Cave  of  Death 
and  restored  him  to  life,  did  this  engagement  hold  out  a 
saving  hope  to  the  soul  of  the  unhappy  master  of  "  The 
Raven,"  and  promise  to  restore  him  once  again  to  love. 

Mrs.  Osgood  said  that,  in  his  letters,  far  more  than  in 
his  published  writings,  the  genius  of  Edgar  Poe  was  most 
gloriously  revealed  ;  they  were  divinely  beautiful.  His 
letters  to  Mrs.  Whitman  at  this  time  are  the  most  pas 
sionately  eloquent  that  we  have  ever  read.  But  they  are, 
for  the  most  part,  strictly  personal,  and  we  can  only  give 
here  a  few  brief  extracts  from  them.  Listen  to  his  proud 
protest  against  the  charge  of  indifference  to  moral  obli 
gations  so  often  and  so  recklessly  urged  against  him  : 

"  FORDHAM,  October  18,  1848. 
"  Of  what  avail  to  me  in  my  deadly  grief 
are  your  enthusiastic  words  of  mere  admiration  ?  You 
do  not  love  me,  or  you  would  have  felt  too  thorough  a 
sympathy  with  the  sensitiveness  of  my  nature  to  have  so 
wounded  me  as  you  have  done  with  this  terrible  passage 
of  your  letter  :  '  How  often  have  I  heard  men  and  even 
women  say  of  you,  "  He  has  great  intellectual  power,  but 
no  principle,  no  moral  sense.'"  Is  it  possible  that  such 


LIFE    OF   EDGAR    A.  POE.  113 

expressions  as  these  could  have  been  repeated  to  me — to 
me — by  one  whom  I  love  :  ah,  whom  I  love  /> 

1 '  For  nearly  three  years  I  have  been  ill,  poor,  living 
out  of  the  world  ;  and  thus,  as  I  now  painfully  see,  have 
afforded  opportunity  to  my  enemies  to  slander  me  in 
private  society  without  my  knowledge,  and,  thus,  with 
impunity.  Although  much,  however,  may  (and,  I  now 
see,  must)  have  been  said  to  my  discredit  during  my 
retirement,  those  few  who,  knowing  me  well,  have  been 
steadfastly  my  friends,  permitted  nothing  to  reach  my 
ears — unless  in  one  instance  of  such  a  character  that  I 
could  appeal  to  a  court  of  justice  for  redress.  I  replied 
to  the  charge  fully,  in  a  public  newspaper,  suing  The 
Mirror  (in  which  the  scandal  appeared),  obtaining  a  ver 
dict,  and  recovering  such  an  amount  of  damages  as,  for 
the  time,  to  completely  break  up  that  journal. 

' '  And  you  ask  me  why  men  so  misjudge  me — why  I 
have  enemies?  If  your  knowledge  of  my  character  and 
of  my  career  does  not  afford  you  an  answer  to  the  query, 
at  least  it  does  not  become  me  to  suggest  the  answer. 
Let  it  suffice  that  I  have  had  the  audacity  to  remain  poor, 
that  I  might  preserve  my  independence  ;  that,  neverthe 
less,  in  letters,  to  a  certain  extent,  and  in  some  regards, 
I  have  been  successful  ;  that  I  have  been  a  critic — an  un 
scrupulously  honest,  and,  no  doubt,  in  many  cases,  a 
bitter  one  ;  that  I  have  uniformly  attacked — where  I  at 
tacked  at  all — those  who  stood  highest  in  power  and  in- 


114  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

fluence  ;  and  that,  whether  in  literature  or  in  society,  I 
have  seldom  refrained  from  expressing,  either  directly  or 
indirectly,  the  pure  contempt  with  which  the  pretensions 
of  ignorance,  arrogance,  or  imbecility  inspire  me. 

"And  you,  who  know  all  this, you  ask  me  why  I  have 
enemies.  Ah  !  I  have  a  hundred  friends  for  every  indi 
vidual  enemy  ;  but  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  you 
do  not  live  among  my  friends?  Had  you  read  my  criti 
cisms  generally,  you  would  see  why  all  those  whom  you 
know  best  know  me  least,  and  are  my  enemies.  Do  you 
not  remember  with  how  deep  a  sigh  I  said  to  you, 
'  My  heart  is  heavy,  for  I  see  that  your  friends  are  not 
my  own  V  Forgive  me,  best  and  beloved  Helen,  if 
there  is  bitterness  in  my  tone.  Toward  you  there  is  no 
room  in  my  soul  for  any  other  sentiment  than  devotion. 
It  is  fate  only  which  I  accuse.  It  is  my  own  unhappy 
nature." 

No  truly  generous  person  can  read  without  a  feeling 
of  sympathy  this  eloquent  remonstrance  against  the  base 
injustice  of  men  who  stabbed  the  character  of  Poe  in  the 
dark;  waiting  until  he  was  "ill,  and  poor,  and  living 
out  of  the  world." 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Whitman,  dated  November  24, 
1848,  occurs  this  powerful  passage:  " The  agony  which 
I  have  so  lately  endured — an  agony  known  only  to  my 
God  and  to  myself — seems  to  have  passed  my  soul 
through  fire,  and  purified  it  from  all  that  is  weak.  Hence- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR   A.  POE.  115 

forward,  I  am  strong  ;  this,  those  who  love  me  shall  see, 
as  well  as  those  who  have  so  relentlessly  endeavored  to 
ruin  me.  It  needed  only  some  such  trials  as  I  have  just 
undergone  to  make  me  what  I  was  born  to  be,  by  making 
me  conscious  of  my  own  strength." 

In  six  weeks  from  the  time  when  they  first  became  en 
gaged  the  affair  had  reached  so  near  a  point,  that  Poe 
wrote  to  his  friend,  W.  J.  Pabodie,  at  Providence,  request 
ing  him  to  get  the  Rev.  Dr.  Crocker  to  publish  the  in 
tended  marriage  at  his  earliest  convenience.  Yet,  in  a 
few  weeks,  the  engagement  was  broken  off.  Why,  still 
remains  a  mystery  ;  but,  certainly,  Poe  was  not  blamable 
in  the  matter,  for  Mrs.  Whitman  always  remained  his 
friend  ;  has  always  defended  him,  both  in  private  and  in 
public  ;  and,  in  "  Edgar  Poe,  and  his  Critics,"  furnished 
the  ablest  and  most  eloquent  defense  of  her  dead  friend 
that  has  yet  been  given  to  the  world.  Read  the  conclud 
ing  stanzas  of  her  beautiful  and  touchmg  monody  en 
titled  "The  Portrait  of  Poe,"  and  then  judge  whether 
any  woman  could  thus  write  of  the  man  who  had  grossly 
insulted  (as  has  been  alleged)  the  dearest  and  most  sensi 
tive  feelings  of  n"er  nature : 

"Sweet,  mourning  eyes,  long  closed  upon  earth's  sorrow, 

Sleep  restfully  after  life's  fevered  dream! 
Sleep,  wayward  heart,  till,  on  some  bright' cool  morrow, 
Thy  soul,  refreshed,  shall  bathe  in  morning's  beam. 


Il6  LIFE   OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 

"  Though  cloud  and  shadow  rest  upon  thy  story, 
And  rude  hands  lift  the  drapery  of  thy  pall, 
Time,  as  a  birthright,  shall  restore  thy  glory, 
And  Heaven  rekindle  all  the  stars  that  fall." 

Were  more  proof  required  that  Edgar  Poe's  conduct  in 
this  affair  was  that  of  an  honorable,  high-souled  gentle 
man,  it  will  be  found  in  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Whitman  ad 
dressed  six  sonnets  to  his  memory  ;  sonnets  breathing  the 
most  passionate  admiration  ;  sonnets  which  exhibit,  with 
noble  eloquence,  the  real  nobility  and  fascination  and 
power  of  her  poet-lover.  The  first  of  these  sonnets  thus 
concludes  : 

"  Thou  wert  my  destiny — thy  song,  thy  fame, 
The  wild  enchantments  clustering  round  thy  name 
Were  my  soul's  heritage — its  regal  dower  ; 
Its  glory,  and  its  kingdom,  and  its  power." 

The  last  of  the  six  sonnets  is  full  of  the  most  sublime 
sorrow  for  the  lost  lover,  and  ends  with  an  intense  long 
ing  for  a  never-ending  reunion  : 

"  Oh,  yet, believe,  that,  in  that  'hollow  vale,' 

Where  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 

To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  and  its  Heaven  forego. 
Till  God's  great  love  on  both  one  hope,  one  Heaven  bestow" 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  117 

When  the  engagement  was  on  the  point  of  being  sev 
ered,  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Whitman,  drew  the  fol 
lowing  exquisite  picture  of  his  ideal  home  : 

"I  suffered  my  imagination  to  stray  with  you,  and  with 
the  few  who  love  us  both,  to  the  banks  of  some  quiet 
river  in  some  lovely  valley  of  our  land.  Here,  not  too 
far  secluded  from  the  world,  we  exercised  a  taste  con 
trolled  by  no  conventionalities,  but  the  sworn  slaves  of  a 
natural  art  in  the  building  for  ourselves  a  cottage,  which 
no  human  being  coul4  ever  pass  without  an  ejaculation 
of  wonder  at  its  strange,  weird,  and  incomprehensible  yet 
simple  beauty.  Oh  !  the  sweet  and  gorgeous,  but  not 
often  rare  flowers  in  which  we  half  buried  it,  the  grandeur 
of  the  magnolias  and  tulip  trees  which  stood  guarding  it, 
the  luxurious  velvet  of  its  lawn,  the  luster  of  the  rivu 
let  that  ran  by  its  very  door,  the  tasteful  yet  quiet  com 
fort  of  its  interior,  the  music,  the  books,  the  unosten 
tatious  pictures,  and  above  all  the  love,  the  love  that 
threw  an  unfading  glory  over  the  whole  1  Alas !  all  is 
now  a  dream." 


Il8  LIFE   OF   EDGAR   A.  POE. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

1849. 

LAST  VISIT   TO   RICHMOND. — DEATH   AND   BURIAL   IN  BALTI 
MORE. — LAST  POEMS. — THE  POE  MONUMENT. 

V 

|E  have  reached  the  last  year  of  Edgar  Poe's  life 
— that  life  so  full  of  sorrow,  so  full  of  suffer 
ing,  but  so  full  of  literary  glory.  This  last 
year  did  not  yield  much  fruit,  but  the  fruit  that  it  yielded 
was  precious  as  the  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides. 

Edgar  Poe  passed  the  winter  and  spring  of  1849  at  his 
secluded  home  in  Fordham.  The  only  variety  to  relieve 
the  monotony  of  his  quiet  life  was  the  occasional  visit  of 
a  friend,  or  a  visit  of  a  few  days,  by  him  and  Mrs.  Clemm, 
to  their  friend,  Mrs.  Estelle  Anna  Lewis,  in  Brooklyn. 
" Annabel  Lee"  and  "The  Bells"  were  the  rich  results 
of  this  winter's  work. 

On  the  3Oth  of  June,  Poe  departed  on  his  last  trip  to 
the  South.  The  months  of  July,  August,  and  Septem 
ber  were  spent  in  Richmond.  During  this  time  he 
boarded  either  at  the  old  Swan  Hotel,  or  resided  in  the 
family  of  Mrs.  John  H.  McKenzie,  at  Duncan  Lodge,  in 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  I  19 

the  suburbs  of  the  city.  She  was  the  lady  who  adopted 
Rosalie  Poe  at  the  time  that  Mr.  Allan  adopted  Edgar. 
The  latter,  from  his  childhood,  had  been  upon  the  most 
intimate  terms  with  the  McKenzie  family,  and  was  always 
a  most  welcome  visitor  at  their  house  ;  in  fact  it  was  his 
home  whenever  he  visited  Richmond.  It  was  during  this 
last  visit  to  Richmond  that  Poe  delivered  his  beautiful 
lecture  upon  "The  Poetical  Principle,"  before  one  of 
the  most  cultivated  audiences  that  had  ever  been  brought 
together  at  the  Exchange  Concert-room. 

Mrs.  Elmira  Shelton,  the  Miss  Royster  to  whom  Edgar 
Poe  had  been  engaged  eighteen  years  before,  was  now  a 
widow.  He  renewed  his  former  intimate  acquaintance 
with  her,  visited  ner  frequently,  and  in  September  they  be 
came  engaged.  About  the  middle  of  that  month  he  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Clemm  that  his  marriage  was  appointed  for  the 
1 7th  of  October.  This  letter,  although  announcing  the 
1 '  happy  event, "  was  very  sad,  as  if  the  writer  was  oppressed 
by  a  sense  of  impending  doom.  On  Tuesday,  the  2d  of 
October,  Poe  left  Richmond  by  boat  for  Baltimore,  where 
he  arrived  the  next  morning.  His  intention  was  to  go  to 
Fordham,  and  bring  Mrs.  Clemm  to  Richmond  for  his 
wedding.  He  had  written  her  to  be  ready  to  return  with 
him  on  the  loth — that  he  had  determined  to  pass  the  rest 
of  his  life  amid  the  scenes  of  his  happy  youth. 

What  became  of  Poe,  after  he  arrived  in  Baltimore  on 
that  October  morning,  will  probably  never  be  known. 


I  2O  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE. 

It  was  an  election  day.  His  cousin,  Mr.  Neilson  Poe, 
told  me  that  on  the  evening  of  that  day  he  was  informed 
that  a  gentleman  named  Poe  was  in  a  back  room  of  the 
Fourth  Ward  polls,  on  Lombard  Street,  between  High 
and  Exeter  Streets.  Mr.  Poe  went  there,  and  found 
Edgar  A.  Poe  in  a  state  of  stupefaction.  He  had  been 
"cooped,"  and  voted  all  over  the  city.  A  carriage  was 
called,  and  the  dying  poet  was  conveyed  to  the  Washing 
ton  College  Hospital,  on  Broadway,  north  of  Baltimore 
Street.  There,  on  the  following  Sunday,  October  yth, 
he  died,  remaining  insensible  to  the  last.  Had  he  lived 
until  the  I9th  of  January,  1850,  he  would  have  been  forty- 
one  years  old.  At  four  o'clock  on  Tuesday  afternoon, 
October  9th,  the  body  of  Edgar  A.  Poe  was  buried  in  the 
midst  of  his  ancestors,  in  the  cemetery  attached  to  the 
Westminster  Church,  southeast  corner  of  Fayette  and 
Greene  Streets.  It  was  a  dull,  cold,  autumn  day — just 
such  a  day  as  he  had  described  in  "Ulalume"  : 

"  The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere." 

Only  eight  persons  attended  the  funeral  of  the  author  of 
' 'The  Raven." 

Both  "The  Bells  "and  "Annabel  Lee  "were  published 
in  Sartairis  Magazine,  of  Philadelphia,  after  Poe's  death. 
The  former,  consisting  at  first  of  only  two  short  stanzas, 
was  left  with  the  editor  of  The  Magazine  in  July,  1849, 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  121 

when  the  poet  stopped  in  Philadelphia  on  his  way  to  the 
South.  The  poem  was  accepted  and  put  in  type,  hut 
before  its  appearance  the  author  greatly  enlarged  it,  and 
before  its  actual  publication  he  sent  to  the  editor  the  com 
plete  version  of  the  poem  in  the  form  in  which  it  finally 
appeared  in  the  November  number  of  The  Magazine  for 
1849.  "Annabel  Lee"  was  published  in  Sartairis  Mag 
azine  in  January,  1850.  A  writer  in  The  British  Quarterly 
Review  -pronounces  "Annabel  Lee"  one  of  the  most 
graceful  effusions  in  all  literature. 

For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  grave  of 
Edgar  A.  Poe  possessed  no  stone  to  tell  the  passing  visitor 
that  America's  greatest  genius  there  reposed.  Strangers 
from  distant  lands  visited  Baltimore,  and  sought  the  grave 
of  Poe  as  a  pilgrim's  shrine.  Great  was  their  astonish 
ment  when,  after  much  inquiry  and  diligent  search,  they 
at  last  found  the  poet's  grave — a  forlorn,  forsaken  spot 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  an  obscure  church-yard.  Rank 
weeds  covered  the  neglected  mound,  but  none  of  the 
violets  and  roses  and  pansies  which  the  poet  loved. 

Such  for  twenty-six  years  was  the  resting-place  of  the 
author  of  "The  Raven."  Such  is  no  longer  the  condi 
tion  of  our  poet's  grave.  On  the  ryth  of  November,  1875, 
a  beautiful  monument  was  dedicated  to  the  honor  of 
Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  the  presence  of  an  immense  assemblage, 
comprising  the  wealth,  taste,  and  culture  of  Baltimore. 
Poetry,  music,  and  eloquence,  each  contributed  to  the 
6 


122  LIFE    OF    EDGAR   A.  POE. 

interesting  occasion.  What  a  contrast  was  offered  by  this 
splendid  demonstration  to  the  scant  ceremony  and  scan 
tier  attendance  on  that  dreary  autumn  afternoon  twenty- 
six  years  before,  when  the  body  of  the  poet  was  privately 
buried  !  Then,  eight  persons  followed  him  to  the  grave, 
while  more  than  a  thousand  persons  were  present  at  the 
dedication  of  the  Poe  Monument. 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.  POE.  123 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

POE'S  PERSONAL  HABITS. — His  INDUSTRY. — His  DISPOSITION. — 
APPEARANCE  AND  MANNERS.— A  GENUINE  AMERICAN  WRIT 
ER. — MORAL  BEAUTY  OF  His  WRITINGS. — POE  AND  BYRON. 
— POE'S  FAME. 

)HERE  are  many  persons — intelligent  and  culti 
vated  persons — who  believe,  and  always  will 
believe,  that  Edgar  Poe  was  a  drunken  vaga 
bond,  whose  whole  life  was  one  long  fit  of  intoxication. 
It  never  seems  to  occur  to  these  worthy  people  that  a 
drunkard's  intellect  could  not  have  produced  the  literary 
work  which  stands  an  immortal  monument  of  Poe's  ge 
nius  ;  that  the  painful  process  of  reasoning,  and  the  won 
derful  analytical  power  in  his  writings  display  the  clearest, 
the  most  brilliant  mind.  Besides  the  ancient  and  mod 
ern  languages,  his  works  show  a  familiarity  with  natural 
history,  mineralogy,  philosophy,  chemistry,  astronomy, 
etc.  Habitual  drunkards  do  not,  generally  speaking, 
spend  their  time  in  accumulating  vast  stores  of  learn 
ing. 

It  does  seem  very  suspicious  that  only  one  of  Poe's 


124  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

acquaintances  knew  of  his  "  frequent  fits  of  intoxication." 
N.  P.  Willis,  who  was  in  daily  intercourse  with  him  for 
months,  saw  nothing  of  his  dissipated  habits  ;  L.  A.  Wil- 
mer,  during  an  intimate  friendship  of  twelve  years,  saw 
nothing  of  it;  George  R.  Graham,  who  was  associated 
with  him  daily  for  two  years,  saw  nothing  of  it  ;  S.  D. 
Lewis,  who  lived  in  the  closest  intimacy  with  him,  never 
saw  him  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  beer,  or  liquor  of  any 
kind.  The  fact  is,  that  it  was  only  at  rare  intervals,  and 
more  especially  after  the  loss  of  his  adored  wife,  that  he 
indulged  in  stimulants  at  all.  Upon  those  occasions,  the 
lines  in  Dermody's  ''Enthusiast"  might  be  applied  to 
Poe: 

"  lie  who  such  polished  lines  so  well  could  form, 

Was  Passion's  slave,  Intoxication's  child  ; 
Now  earth-enamored,  a  groveling  worm, 

Now  seraph-plumed,  the  wonderful,  the  wild." 

Poe  was  a  most  laborious,  painstaking,  industrious 
writer.  Mrs.  Clemm  told  me  that  it  was  a  regular  habit 
of  his,  when  editor  of  Grahams  Magazine,  to  sit  down  to 
his  desk  after  breakfast,  and  write  five  pages  of  print  before 
going  to  bed.  He  never  sat  down  to  write  until  he  had 
completely  arranged  the  plot,  the  characters,  and  even  the 
language.  His  habit  was  to  walk  up  and  down  while 
thinking  out  his  work. 

Neilson  Poe  says  Edgar  was  one  of  the  best-hearted 
men  that  iver  lived.  People  who  only  met  him  in  so- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  125 

ciety,  where  his  manner  was  often  cold  and  repelling, 
could  not  believe  him  otherwise  than  proud  and  cynical. 
It  was  in  the  bosom  of  his  own  little  family,  and  among 
the  intimate  friends  whom  he  loved  and  trusted,  the 
"  few  who  loved  him,  and  whom  he  loved,"  that  his  ten 
der  and  affectionate  nature  manifested  itself  in  all  its 
sweetness. 

Every  person  who  came  in  personal  contact  with  Edgar 
Poe  speaks  of  his  elegant  appearance,  the  stately  grace 
of  his  manners,  and  his  fascinating  conversation.  "  His 
manners  were  winning  in  the  extreme,"  says  an  accom 
plished  lady,  "his  voice  a  marvel  of  melody."  "His 
conversation  was  bright,  earnest,  and  fascinating,"  says 
another."  "  He  impressed  me  as  a  man  inspired  by  no 
ble  and  exalted  sentiments,"  says  Dr.  N.  C.  Brooks,  who 
was  his  friend  from  first  to  last.  "  I  do  not  think  it  pos 
sible  to  overstate  the  gentlemanly  reticence  and  amenity 
of  his  habitual  manner,"  says  Mrs.  Whitman,  in  a  letter 
lying  before  me. 

Edgar  Poe  was  five  feet  six  inches  high  ;  in  his  person 
there  was  a  perfect  blending  of  grace  with  strength  ;  his 
shoulders  were  broad,  his  chest  full,  his  waist  small,  his 
limbs  symmetrical,  his  feet  and  hands  as  beautiful  and 
shapely  as  a  girl's.  He  had  the  firm  step,  erect  form,  and 
military  bearing  observable  in  all  West-Pointers.  His 
eyes  were  dark  gray,  with  a  sad  but  fascinating  expres 
sion  : 


126  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE. 

"  Those  melancholy  eyes  that  seemed 

To  look  beyond  all  time,  or,  turned 
On  eyes  they  loved,  so  softly  beamed — 
How  few  their  mystic  language  learned. 

"  How  few  could  read  their  depths,  or  know 

The  proud,  high  heart  that  dwelt  alone 
In  gorgeous  palaces  of  woe, 

Like  Eblis  on  his  burning  throne." 

Over  his  broad,  white  forehead  fell  the  rich,  dark  hair, 
almost  as  black  as  the  wings  of  his* own  "Raven."  The 
"sweet,  imperious  mouth,"  when  opened  by  one  of  the 
poet's  rare  but  beautiful  smiles,  disclosed  the  most  bril 
liant  teeth  in  the  world.  His  complexion  was  pale,  but 
it  was  a  clear,  "translucent  pallor,  "not  the  sickly  hue 
of  ill  health. 

Poe  always  dressed  with  extreme  elegance  and  in  per 
fect  taste  ;  he  generally  wore  gray  clothes,  a  loose  black 
cravat,  and  turn-down  collar. 

Edgar  A.  Poe  was  a  genuine  American  writer.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  American  authors  who  dared  to  have 
a  literary  opinion  different  from  that  of  England.  He 
did  not  wait  for  a  transatlantic  verdict  upon  a  poet,  nov 
elist,  or  historian  before  he  delivered  his  opinion,  and  he 
maintained  it  with  irresistible  force.  He  was  perfectly 
free  from  that  spirit  of  literary  Anglo-mania,  which  was  so 
generally  prevalent  in  this  country  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago.  He  did  more  to  establish  a  native  American  liter- 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR   A.   POE.  127 

ature  than  all  the  writers  that  preceded  him.  Let  it  never 
be  forgotten  that  Edgar  A.  Poe  has  conferred  upon  our 
country  the  glory  of  having  produced  the  most  original 
poet  of  the  century. 

A  man,  whose  early  death  saved  him  from  the  peniten 
tiary  for  the  crime  of  bigamy,  was  the  first  to  start  the 
charge  that  Poe  was  utterly  void  of  conscience,  that  he 
"exhibited  scarcely  any  virtue  in  either  his  life  or  his 
writings."  We  gladly  admit  that  Edgar  Poe  did  not 
exhibit  any  of  the  peculiar  "virtues  "  of  this  libeler  "in 
his  life  or  his  writings."  We  confidently  point  to  the 
present  memoir  as  a  triumphant  answer  to  this  base  and 
gratuitous  charge  as  to  the  life  of  Poe.  As  to  his  writ 
ings,  there  is  not  a  sentence,  a  line,  a  word  in  all  the 
four  closely-printed  volumes  that  could  bring  a  blush 
to  the  most  delicate  maiden's  cheek,  and,  as  Han- 
nay,  the  English  critic,  says,  "His  poetry  is  all  as  pure 
as  wild  flowers."  Again:  "With  all  his  passion  for 
the  beautiful,  no  poet  was  ever  less  voluptuous.  He 
never  profaned  his  genius."  No;  his  love  of  beauty  \ 
was  not  the  gross  love  of  the  sensualist ;  it  was  rather  / 
the  spiritualized,  ethereal,  heavenly  adoration  of  the  se 
raph. 

It  is  a  matter  of  surprise  that  any  American  writer,  who 
really  has  at  heart  the  honor  of  American  literature,  should 
endeavor  to  cast  repioach  and  dishonor  upon  Edgar  A. 
Poe,  who  has  done  more  for  our  country's  literary  reputa- 


128  LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.   POE. 

tion  than  any  other  author.  It  is  hard  to  stop  a  false 
hood  once  started.  So,  every  month  or  two,  some  hungry 
penny-a-liner  takes  up  the  old,  worn-out  stories  against 
Poe,  dresses  them  up  in  new  -clothes,  and  palms  them 
upon  a  credulous  and  unsuspecting  world.  The  malig 
nancy  of  these  literary  vermin  is  only  exceeded  by  their 
ignorance. 

Poe  and  Byron  have  often  been  compared.  They  were 
alike  only  in  the  divine  gift  of  genius.  But  how  different 
their  earthly  lot !  Byron,  at  an  early  age,  became  the 
lord  of  Newstead  Abbey,  a  magnificent  inheritance.  Poe, 
at  an  early  age,  was  cast  upon  the  world  homeless  and 
friendless.  Byron  was  descended  from  a  long  and  dis 
tinguished  line  of  nobles  ;  he  was  prouder  of  being  a 
descendant  of  the  Norman  gentleman  who  came  over 
with  the  Conqueror,  and  whose  name  was  inscribed  in 
Doomsday  Book,  than  he  was  of  having  written  "  Childe 
Harold,"  or  "Manfred/'  Poe,  though  of  a  good  family, 
was  the  son  of  a  poor  player.  Byron,  at  twenty-four,"  was 
the  most  famous  poet  of  his  age,  the  idol  of  the  aristo 
cratic  society  of  England,  and  the  most  beautiful  women  in 
the  world  were  striving  for  his  smile.  Poe,  at  twenty-four, 
was  living  in  poverty  and  obscurity.  Byron,  after  a  liter 
ary  career  unexampled  for  success  and  brilliancy,  died  in 
the  glorious  struggle  for  Grecian  independence.  Poe, 
after  a  literary  career  crowded  with  suffering  and  sorrow, 
died  miserably  in  a  public  hospital.  Poe  suffered,  but  he 


LIFE    OF    EDGAR    A.    POE.  T2Q 

drew  no  man  down  with  him  ;  he  did  not  attempt  to 
shake  any  man's  religion  ;  he  seduced  no  one  from  the 
path  of  virtue  by  the  voluptuous  enchantment  of  his 
writings.  Byron  did  this,  and  more  than  this  :  to  the 
evil  influence  of  his  writings  he  added  the  evil  example 
of  his  life. 

Edgar  Poe  was,  perhaps,  the  most  scholarly  writer 
our  country  has  ever  produced.  His  acquaintance  with 
classical  literature  was  thorough.  His  familiarity  with 
modern  literature,  especially  French  and  Italian,  was  ex 
tensive,  while,  of  English  literature,  it  can  be  truly  said 
he  knew  it  from  the  very  source — from  Chaucer,  the  first 
poet-laureate,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  to  Tennyson, 
the  last  poet-laureate,  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Even 
the  most  insignificant  of  his  writings  show  scholarship. 
In  the  language  of  Mr.  Kennedy,  "  His  taste  was  replete 
with  classical  flavor,  and  he  wrote  in  the  spirit  of  an  old 
Greek  philosopher." 

Dying  so  young,  and  accomplishing  so  much,  we  may 
confidently  conjecture  what  the  author  of  "  The  Raven  " 
might  have  done  had  he  reached  the  number  of  years 
allotted  to  man.  But  the  fame  of  Edgar  A.  Poe  is 
secure  ;  it  can  never  die. 
6* 


THE    RAVEN. 


[NCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  for 

gotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 

door. 

"  'T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  cham 
ber  door  — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 

the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought  to 

borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost 

Lenore  — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore  — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


132  THE    RAVEN. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating 
il  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more.'"' 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness    I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door ;  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before ; 


THE    RAVEN.  133 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 

token, 
And  the  only  word  there   spoken  was   the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  ?  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 

"  Lenore ! " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning, 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than 
before. 

"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  win 
dow  lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is  and  this  mystery 
explore  — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  ex 
plore  ;  — 

Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt 
and  flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 
yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped 
or  stayed  he, 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  cham 
ber  door  — 


134  THE    RAVEN. 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 
door  — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then   this   ebony  bird   beguiling   my   sad   fancy   into 
smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore. 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

'  so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy  bore  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham 
ber  door  — 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  cham 
ber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 


THE    RAVEN.  135 

further  then  he  uttered  ;   not  a  feather  then  he 
fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before  — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 
flown  before," 

Then  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore." 

X 

'Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  bur 
den  bore  — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  '  Never,  —  nevermore.' " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 

bust  and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 


136  THE    RAVEN. 

This  I  sat  engaged   in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex 
pressing 

To  the. fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 
core ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  re 
clining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated 
o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloat 
ing  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah, 'nevermore  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim    whose   footfalls   tinkled   on  the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"!  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee  — by  these 

angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  Nepenthe  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore  ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

rophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 


THE    RAVEN.  137 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en 
chanted  — 

On  this  Home  by  horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  Lim- 
plore  — 

Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me, 
I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said   I,  "thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil  ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we 

both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  ! "  I 
shrieked,  upstarting  — 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore  ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the  bust  above 
my  door  ! 


138  LENORE. 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 

the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 


LENORE. 

|H,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !   the  spirit  flown 

forever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll !  —  a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the 

Stygian  river ;  * 

And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  t/iou  no  tear? — weep  now  or 
nevermore ! 

See!    on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love, 
Lenore ! 


LENORE.  139 

Come  !  let  the  burial  rite  be  read  —  the  funeral  song  be 

sung !  — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 

"  Wretches  !   ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 

for  her  pride ; 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her  — 

that  she  died ! 
How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ?  —  the  requiem  how 

be  sung 

By  you  —  by  yours,  the  evil  eye,  —  by  yours,  the  slan 
derous  tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died  so 

young  ? " 

Peccavimus ;  but  rave  not  thus !  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong ! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  "gone  before,"  with  Hope,  that 

flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride  — 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes  — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair  —  the  death  upon 

her  eyes. 


MO  HYMN. 

"  Avaunt !   to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I 

upraise, 

But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old  days ! 
Let  no  bell  toll !  —  lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hallowed 

mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  cloth  float  up  from  the 

damned  Earth. 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant  ghost 

is  riven  — 

From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven  — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven." 


HYMN. 

morn  —  at  noon  —  at  twilight  dim  — 
Maria  !    thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  ! 
In  joy  and  woe  —  in  good  and  ill  — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee  ; 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine  I 


A   VALENTINE.  141 


A  VALENTINE. 

'OR  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous  eyes, 

Brightly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Loeda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that,  nestling  lies 

Upon  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines !  —  they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine  —  a  talisman  —  an  amulet 
That  must  be  worn  at  heart.    Search  well  the  measure  — 

The  words  —  the  syllables  !     Do  not  forget 
The  trivialest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labor  ! 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  might  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 

If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Enwritten  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes  scintillating  soul,  there  lie  perdus 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  the  hearing 

Of  poets,  by  poets  —  as  the  name  is  a  poet's,  too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like  the  knight  Pinto  —  Mendez  Ferdinando  — 
Still  form  a  synonym  for  Truth.  —  Cease  trying  ! 

You  will  not  read  the  riddle,  though  you  do  the  best 
you  can  do. 

[  To  translate  the  address,  read  the  first  letter  of  the  first  line  in 
connection  with  the  second  letter  of  the  second  line,  tlie  third  letter  of 
the  third  line,  the  fourth  of  the  fourth,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  The 
name  will  thus  appear.} 


142  THE   COLISEUM. 


THE   COLISEUM. 

|YPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !     Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power  ! 
At  length  —  at  length  —  after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie,) 
I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory  ! 

Vastness  !  and  Age  !  and  Memories  of  Eld  ! 
Silence  !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now  —  I  feel  ye  in  your  strength  — 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane  ! 
O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars  ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls  ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

IJere,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle  I 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horne'd  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  1 


THE   COLISEUM.  143 

But  stay  !  these  walls  —  these  ivy-clad  arcades  — 
These  mouldering  plinths  —  these  sad  and  blackened 

shafts  — 

These  vague  entablatures  —  this  crumbling  frieze  — 
These  shattered  cornices  —  this  wreck  —  this  ruin  — 
These  stones  —  alas  !  these  gray  stones  —  are  they  all  — 
All  of  the  famed,  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 

"  Not  all  "  —  the  Echoes  answer  me  —  "  not  all  1 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 

From  us,  and  from  all  Ruin,  unto  the  wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 

We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men  — we  rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 

We  are  not  impotent  —  we  pallid  stones. 

Not  all  our  power  is  gone  —  not  all  our  fame  -— 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown  — 

Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us  — 

Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie  — 

Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 

And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 

Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 


144  TO  HELEN. 

TO   HELEN. 

SAW  thee  once  —  once  only  —  years  ago  : 
I  must  not  say  how  many  —  but  not  many. 
It  was  a  July  midnight ;  and  from  out 
A  full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring, 
Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 
There  fell  a  silvery  silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 
Upon  the  upturn' d  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe  — 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death  — 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 

I  saw  thee  half  reclining  ;  while  the  moon 

Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  the  roses, 

And  on  thine  own,  upturn'd  —  alas,  in  sorrow  ! 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight  — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate, 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 
No  footstep  stirred  :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 
Save  only  thee  and  me.      (Oh,  Heaven  !  —  oh,  God  ! 


TO    HELEN.  145 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words  !) 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused  —  I  looked  — 
And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  !) 

The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out : 

The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 

The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 

Were  seen  no  more :  the  very  roses'  odors 

Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 

All  —  all  expired  save  thee  —  save  less  than  thou  : 

Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes  — 

Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 

I  saw  but  them  —  they  were  the  world  to  me. 

I  saw  but  them  —  saw  only  them  for  hours  — 

Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  clown. 

What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 

Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres  ! 

How  dark  a  woe  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 

How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  ! 

How  daring  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep  — 

How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight, 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
Didst  glide  way.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go  —  they  never  yet  have  gone. 


146  TO . 

Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 

They  follow  ine  —  they  lead  me  through  the  years 

They  are  my  ministers  —  yet  I  their  slave. 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle  — 

My  duty,  to  le  saved  by  their  bright  light, 

And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope), 

And  are  far  up  in  Heaven  — the  stars  I  kneel  to 

In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 

While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 

I  see  them  still  —  two  sweetly  scintillant 

Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 


TO 


JOT  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines, 

In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality,      [that  ever 
Maintained   "  the  power   of  words  "  —  denied 
A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 
Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue  : 
And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 
Two  words  — two  foreign  soft  dissyllables  — 
Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 
By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "  dew 
That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill,"  — 


ULALUME.  147 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart, 

Unthought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of  thought, 

Richer,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 

Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israfel, 

(Who  has  "  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures,") 

Could  hope  to  utter.     And  I !  my  spells  are  broken. 

The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand. 

With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 

I  cannot  write  —  I  cannot  speak  or  think  — 

Alas,  I  cannot  feel ;  for  't  is  not  feeling, 

This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 

Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 

Gazing,  entranced,  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 

And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right, 

Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 

Amid  unpurpled  vapors,  far  away 

To  where  the  prospect  terminates  —  thee  only. 


ULALUME. 

HE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere  — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere  — 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 
Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 


148  ULALUME. 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  — 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

•Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll  — 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll  — 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole  — 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere  - 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere  — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year  — 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber  — 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here) 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


ULALUME.  149 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn  — 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn  — 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn  — 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  —  "  She  is  wanner  than  Dian : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs  — 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs  : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies  — 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies  — 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes  — 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  ringer, 

Said  —  «  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust  — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust :  — 

Oh,  hasten  !  oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh,  fly !  —  let  us  fly !  —  for  we  must." 


15°  ULALUME. 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust  — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust  — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied  —  "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  Sybilic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night :  — 

See  !  —  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright  — 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom  — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb  — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb  • 

And  I  said  —  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ?  " 
She  replied  —  "  Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 
'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  !  " 


THE   BELLS.  151 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere  — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried  —  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here  — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here  — 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber  — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


THE   BELLS. 

i. 
[EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 


THE   BELLS. 

To  the  tintinabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

H. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten  golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  1 


THE    BELLS.  153 


III. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  1 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 


154  THE   BELLS. 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells  — 

Of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells - 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 

Iron  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 


THE    BELLS.  155 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells  — 

Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells - 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


ANNABEL   LEE. 


AN   ENIGMA. 

|ELDOM  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 
"  Half  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet. 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once 
As  easily  as  through  a  Naples  bonnet  — 
Trash  of  all  trash  !  —  how  can  a  lady  don  it ! 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff  — 
Owl-downy  nonsense  that  the  faintest  puff 

Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it." 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 
The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles  —  ephemeral  and  so  transparent  — 

But  this  is,  now,  —  you  may  depend  upon  it  — 
Stable,  opaque,  immortal  —  all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within 't. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

IT  wa^maW  and  many jj  \iear  ago,  £~ 
In  a  kingdom  by  th/ sea,   vb 

-         (^r        — —  °      6^  _— •*-  tX^  7  _^  >^>  ..  < ' 

^  Thatji  maidenjhere  lived  whom  you  may  know 
By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE  :    ^7, 

+^fe        ****         -^•j          <*S  •*  -^  ••  ^  -•       '       — i^t 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought  C^ 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 


ANNABEL   LEE.  157 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea : 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love  — 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea,- 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me  — 
Yes  !  —  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  ihe  sea) 
"  That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night,       ^ 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  —  JL       ' 

And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,    \        (V 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea,  + 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  : 


I58  TO   MY   MOTHER. 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


TO   MY   MOTHER. 

[ECAUSE  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 

The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of  love, 
None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  Mother," 
Therefore  by  tljat  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you  — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death  installed  you, 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother  —  my  own  mother,  who  died  early, 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself ;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 

Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  own  soul-life. 


THE    HAUNTED    PALACE.  159 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 

|N  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
"Once  a  fair  and.stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion  — 

It  stood  there  ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair  ! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  ! ) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


160  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  .whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn  !  —  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 


THE    CONQUEROR  WORM.  l6l 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM. 

|O  !   't  is  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 
The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly  — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe  ! 

That  motley  drama  —  oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 


1 62  TO   F — S   S.   O — D. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude  ! 
It  writhes  !  —  it  writhes  !  —  with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbrued. 

Out  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


TO  F S   S.   O D. 

|HOU  wouldst  be  loved  ?  —  then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love  —  a  simple  duty. 


TO    ONE    IN    PARADISE.  163 

TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 
fHOU  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine  — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  .from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"  On  !  on  !  "  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas  !    alas  !   with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er  ! 
"  No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — " 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar  ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 


1 64  THE   VALLEY   OF   UNREST. 

THE  VALLEY  OF   UNREST. 

\NCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell ; 
They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 
Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 
The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 
Nothing  there  is  motionless  — 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
Over  the  magic  solitude. 
Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 
That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 
Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 
Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 
That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 
Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 
Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 
In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye  — 
Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 
And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave  ! 
They  wave  :  —  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 
They  weep  :  —  from  off  their  delicate  stems 
Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


THE    CITY    IN    THE   SEA.  165 

THE   CITY   IN   THE   SEA. 

!O  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West,  [best 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the 
Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town  ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently  — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free  — 
Up  domes  —  up  spires  —  up  kingly  halls  — • 
Up  fanes  —  up  Babylon-like  walls  — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers  — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly,  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 


1 66  THE    CITY    IN    THE    SEA. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While,  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town, 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves, 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye  — 

Not  the  gayly-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed  ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas  ! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass  — 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea  — 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  scenes  less  hideously  serene. 

But  low !  a  stir  is  in  the  air  ! 
The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there  ! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide  — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A.  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low  — 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 


THE    SLEEPER.  1 67 

THE  SLEEPER. 

]T  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 

Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 

And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 

Upon  the  quiet  mountain-top, 

Steals  drowsily  and  musically 

Into  the  universal  valley. 

The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave  ; 

The  lily'  lolls  upon  the  wave  ; 

Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 

The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 

Looking  like  Lethe,  see  !  the  lake 

A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 

And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 

All  Beauty  sleeps  !  —  and  lo  !  where  lies 

(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 

Irene,  with  her  Destinies  ! 

Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right  — 

This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 

The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop  — 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully  —  so  fearfully  — 


i68 


THE    SLEEPER. 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall ! 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ? 
Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees  ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor  !  strange  thy  dress  ! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! 

The  lady  sleeps  !     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps  !     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold  — 

Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 


SILENCE.  169 

Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals  — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone  — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin  ! 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within. 


SILENCE. 

|HERE    are    some    qualities  —  some    incorporate 

things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 

From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and 

shade. 

There  is  a  twofold  Silence —  sea  and  shore  — 
Body  and  soul.     One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 
Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown ;  some  solemn  graces, 
Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorlcss  :  his  name's  "No  More." 
He  is  the  corporate  Silence  :  dread  him  not ! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself; 
But  should  some  urgent  fate  (untimely  lot !) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless  elf, 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man),  commend  thyself  to  God  ! 


A    DREAM   WITHIN    A    DREAM. 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 

[AKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ! 
And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 
Thus  much  let  me  avow  — 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream ; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  ? 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand  — 
How  few  !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep  —  while  I  weep  ! 
O  God  !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp  ? 
O  God  !  can  I. not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream  ? 


DREAM-LAND.  I  7 J 

DREAM-LAND. 

|Y  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule  — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime, 
Out  of  SPACE  —  out  of  TIME. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over  ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore  ; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire  ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters  —  lone  and  dead,  — 
Their  still  waters  —  still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead,  — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily,  — 


DREAM-LAND. 

By  the  mountains  —  near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever,  — 
By  the  gray  woods,  — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp,  — 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 
Where  dwell  the  Ghouls,  — 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy  — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy,  — 
There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past  — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by  — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth  —  and  Heaven. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 
'T  is  a  peaceful,  soothing  region  — 
For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 
'T  is  —  oh  't  is  an  Eldorado  ! 
But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it, 
May  not  —  dare  not  openly  view  it  ; 
Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 
To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed  ; 
So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 
The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid  ; 
And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 
Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 


TO    ZANTE.  173 


By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


TO  ZANTE. 

AIR  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take ! 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 
At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake  ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss ! 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more  —  no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes  ! 
No  more!  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming  all !     Thy  charms  shall  please  no  more- 
Thy  memory  no  more  !    Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle  !     O  purple  Zante  ! 
"  Isola  d'oro  !     Fior  di  Levante  !  " 


1 74  EULALIE. 

EULALIE. 

DWELT  alone 
In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till   the  fair  and  gentle    Eulalie  became  my  blushing 

'   bride  — 

Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smiling 
bride. 

Ah,  less  —  less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl ; 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl, 
Can  vie   with   the   modest   Eulalie's   most   unregarded 

curl  — 

Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's  most  humble 
and  careless  curl. 

Now  Doubt  —  now  Pain 
Come  never  again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  all  day  long 
Shines  bright  and  strong, 
Astart6  within  the  sky, 

While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron  eye  — 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet  eye. 


ELDORADO.  1 75 

ELDORADO. 

IAYLY  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old  — 

This  knight  so  bold  — • 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow  — 

"  Shadow,"  said  he, 

"  Where  can  it  be  — 
This  land  of  Eldorado  ?  " 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied,  — 
"  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  !  " 


1 76  ISRAFEL. 


ISRAFEL.* 

|N  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  ;  " 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiades,  even, 

Which  were  seven), 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choii 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings  — 
The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

*  And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and  who  has  the  sweet 
est  voice  of  all  God's  creatures.  —  KORAN. 


ISRAFEL.  177 


But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty  — 

Where  Love 's  a  grown-up  God  — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest ! 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute  ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 


FOR   ANNIE. 


He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


FOR  ANNIE. 

IHANK  Heaven!  the  crisis — 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last  — 
And  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know, 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length  — 
But  no  matter !  —  I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composed 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead  — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 


FOR   ANNIE.  179 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 

The  sighing  and  sobbing 
Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart :  —  ah,  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing ! 

The  sickness  —  the  nausea  — 

The  pitiless  pain  - 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain  — 
With  the  fever  called  "Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh  !  of  all  tortures       • 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated  —  the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  napthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst :  — 
I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst :  — 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground  — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 


i  So 


FOR   ANNIE. 

And  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed  — 
And,  to  sleep ,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes, 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting  its  roses  — 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses  : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies  — 
A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies  — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  cf  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie  — 


FOR   ANNIE. 

Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast  — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 
She  covered  me  warm, 

And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 
To  keep  me  from  harm  — 

To  the  queen  of  the  angels 
To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead :  — 


1 82  BRIDAL    BALLAD. 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie  — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie  — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


TO 


HEED  not  that  my  earthly  lot 

Hath  —  little  of  Earth  in  it  — 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

In  the  hatred  of  a  minute  :  — 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 
Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I, 
But  that  you  sorrow  for  my  fate 
Who  am  a  passer-by. 


BRIDAL   BALLAD. 

| HE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow ; 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  I  am  happy  now. 


BRIDAL    BALLAD.  183 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell  — 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell; 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  church-yard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 

"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now  !  " 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 

And  this  the  plighted  vow, 
And,  though  my  faith  be  broken, 
And,  though  my  heart  be  broken, 
Behold  the  golden  token 

That /raw  me  happy  now  ! 

Would  God  I  could  awaken ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken,  — 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


1 84  TO   F -. 

TO  F . 

[ELOVED  !  amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path 
(Drear  path,  alas  !  where  grows 
Not  even  one  lonely  rose)  — 

My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 
In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 
An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

And  thus  my  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea  — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms  —  but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 
Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


SCENES   FROM   "  POLITIAN.  185 

SCENES   FROM    "POLITIAN"; 

AN    UNPUBLISHED   DRAMA. 

I. 

ROME.  —  A  Hall  in  a  Palace.     Alessandra  and  Castiglione. 

\LESSANDRA.     Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione, 

Castiglione.     Sad  !  —  not  I. 
Oh,  I  'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Rome  ! 
A  few  days  more,  thou  knowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.     Oh,  I  am  very  happy ! 

Aless.     Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing 
Thy  happiness  !  —  what  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine  ? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 

Cos.     Did  I  sigh  ? 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.     It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly  —  a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
\Vhen  I  am  very  happy.     Did  I  sigh  ?  (Sighing.) 

Aless.     Thou  didst.     Thou  art  not  well.     Thou  hast 

indulged 

Too  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  see  it. 
Late  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione,  —  these 
Will  ruin  thee  !  thou  art  already  altered  — 
Thy  looks  are  haggard  —  nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 


186  SCENES    FROM   "  POLITIAN.' 


Cas.  (musing).     Nothing,  fair  cousin,  nothing  —  not 

even  deep  sorrow  — 
Wears  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine. 
I  will  amend. 

Aless.     Do  it  !     I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company,  too  —  fellows  low  born  — 
111  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 

Cas.     I  will  drop  them. 

Aless.     Thou  wilt  —  thou  must.      Attend  thou   also 

more 

To  thy  dress,  and  equipage  —  they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion  —  much  depends 
Upon  appearances. 

Cas,     I  '11  see  to  it. 

Aless.     Then  see  to  it !  —  pay  more  attention,  sir, 
To  a  becoming  carriage  —  much  thou  wantest 
In  dignity. 

Cas.     Much,  much,  oh  much  I  want 
In  proper  dignity. 

Aless.    (haughtily) .     Thou  mockest  me,  sir ! 

Cas.  (abstractedly) .     Sweet,  gentle  Lalage  ! 

Aless.     Heard  I  aright  ? 
I  speak  to  him  —  he  speaks  of  Lalage  ! 
Sir  Count!  (places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  what  art 

thou  dreaming  ?  he 's  not  well  1 
What  ails  thee,  sir? 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  187 

Cas.   (starting).     Cousin  !  fair  cousin  !  —  madam  ! 
I  crave  thy  pardon  —  indeed  I  am  not  well  — 
Your  hand  Irom  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive  !  —  Madam  —  the  Duke  ! 

Enter  Di  Broglio. 
Di  Broglio.     My  son,  I've  news  for  thee  !  —  hey?  — 

what 's  the  matter  ?  (observing  Alessandra) 
I'  the  pouts  ?     Kiss  her,  Castiglione  !  kiss  her, 
You  dog  !  and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  minute  ! 
I  Ve  news  for  you  both.     Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Rome  —  Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester ! 
We  '11  have  him  at  the  wedding.     'T  is  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 

Aless.     What !     Politian 
Of  Britain,  Earl  of  Leicester  ?    . 
Di  Brog.     The  same,  my  love. 

We  '11  have  him  at  the  wedding.     A  man  quite  young 
In  years,  but  gray  in  fame.     I  have  not  seen  him, 
But  Rumor  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy 
Pre-eminent  in  arts  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.     We  '11  have  him  at  the  wedding. 

Aless.     I  have  heard  much  of  this  Politian. 
Gay,  volatile,  and  giddy  —  is  he  not  ? 
And  little  given  to  thinking. 

Di  Brog.     Far  from  it,  love. 
No  branch,  they  say,  of  all  philosophy 
So  deep,  abstruse  he  has  not  mastered  it. 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 


1 88  SCENES   FROM 

Aless.     'T  is  very  strange  ! 
I  have  known  men  have  seen  Politian 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  of  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs. 

Cas.     Ridiculous  !     Now  /have  seen  Politian 
And  know  him  well  —  nor  learned  nor  mirthful  he. 
He  is  a  dreamer  and  a  man  shut  out 
From  common  passions. 

Di  Brog.     Children,  we  disagree. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream,  or  did  I  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man  ?  (Exeunt?) 

II. 

ROME.  —  A  Lady's  apartment,  with  a  window  open  and  Idoking 
into  a  garden.  Lalage,  in  deep  mourning,  reading  at  a  table  on 
which  lie  some  books  and  a  hand  mirror.  In  the  background 
Jacinta  (a  servant-maid)  leans  carelessly  upon  a  chair. 

Lai.     Jacinta  !  is  it  thou  ? 
Jac.  (pertly).     Yes,  ma'am,  I'm  here. 
Lai.     I  did  not  know,  Jacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 
Sit  down  !  —  let  not  my  presence  trouble  you  — 
Sit  down!  — for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 
Jac.    (aside}.     Tis  time. 

(  Jarinta  scats  herself  in  a  sidelong  manner  upon 
the  chair,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  back,  and 
regarding  her  mistress  with  a  contemptuous 
look.  Lalage  continues  to  read.) 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  189 

Lai.     "  It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil ! " 

(Pauses  —  turns  over  some  leaves ;  and  resumes.) 
"  No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow,  nor  shower  — 
But  Ocean  ever  to  refresh  mankind 
Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  wester-n  wind." 
Oh,  beautiful !  —  most  beautiful !  —  how  like 
To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  Heaven  ! 
O  happy   land!    {paused).      She    died!  —  the    maiden 

died  ! 

O  still  more  happy  maiden  who  couldst  die ! 
Jacinta  ! 

(Jatinta  returns  no  answer •,  and  Lalage  presently 

resumes. ) 

Again  !  a  similar  tale 

Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea  ! 
Thus  speaketh  one  Ferdinand  in  the  words  of  the  play, 
"  She  died  full  young  "  — one  Bossola  answers  him  — 
"  I  think  not  so  —  her  infelicity 

Seemed  to  have  years  too  many  "  —  Ah,  luckless  lady  ! 
Jacinta!     ( Still  no  answer. ) 

Here  's  a  far  sterner  story 
But  like  —  oh,  very  like  in  its  despair  — 
Of  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts  —  losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.     Thus  endeth  the  history  —  and  her  maids 
Lean  over  her  and  weep  —  two  gentle  maids 


19°  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

With  gentle  names  —  Eiros  and  Charmion  ! 
Rainbow  and  dove  ! Jacinta  ! 

Jac.   {pettishly}.     Madam,  what  is  it  ? 

Lai.     Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library  and  bring  me 
The  Holy  Evangelists  ? 

Jac.     Pshaw!     (Exit.) 

Lai.     If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead,  it  is  there  ! 
Dew  in  the  night-time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found  —  "clew  sweeter  far  than  that 
Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill." 

(Re-enter  Jacinta^  and  throws  a  volume  on  the 

table) 

There,  ma'am,  's    the  book.     (Aside.)     Indeed  she  is 
very  troublesome. 

Lai.  (astonished).     What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ? 

Have  done  aught 

To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee  ?  —  I  am  sorry. 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy  and  respectful.     (Resumes  her  reading.) 

Jac.   (aside).     I  can't  believe 
She  has  any  more  jewels  —  no  —  no —  she  gave  me  all. 

Lai.     What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?    Now  I  bethink 

me 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  good  Ugo ?  —  and  when  is  it  to  be? 


SCENES   FROM    "  POLITIAN."  19  l 

Can  I  do  aught !  —  is  there  no  further  aid 
Thou  needest,  Jacinta? 

Jac.   (aside}.     Is  there  no  further  aid  ! 
That 's  meant  for  me.  —  I  'm  sure,  madam,  you  need  not 
Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 

Lai.     Jewels  !  Jacinta, — now  indeed,  Jacinta, 
I  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 

Jac.     Oh  !  perhaps  not ! 
But  then  I  might  have  sworn  it.     After  all 
There  's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 
For  he  's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 
Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as  you  ; 
And  at  the  best  I  'm  certain,  madam,  you  cannot 
Have  use  for  jewels  now.     But  I  might  have  sworn  it. 

(Exit.) 

(La/age  bur  sis  into  tears  and  leans  her  head  upon 
the  table  —  after  a  short  pause  raises  it.} 

Lai*     Poor  Lalage  !  —  and  is  it  to  come  to  this  ? 
Thy  servant-maid  !  —  but  courage  !  —  't  is  but  a  viper 
Who  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  the  soul ! 

(Taking  up  the  mirror.} 

Ha  !  here  at  least 's  a  friend  —  too  much  a  friend 
In  earlier  days  —  a  friend  will  not  deceive  thee 
Fair  mirror  and  true  !  now  tell  me  (for  thou  canst) 
A  tale  —  a  pretty  tale  —  and  heed  thou  not 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.     It  answers  me. 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 


192  SCENES    FROM   °  POLITIAN." 

And  Beauty  long  deceased  —  remembers  me 

Of  Joy  departed  —  Hope,  the  Seraph  Hope, 

Inurned  and  intombed  !  now,  in  a  tone 

Low,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible, 

Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning 

For  ruined   maid.     Fair  mirror  and  true  !  —  thou  liest 

not ! 
Thou  hast  no  end  to  gain  —  no  heart  to  break  — 

Castiglione  lied  who  said  he  loved 

Thou  true  —  he  false  !  —  false  !  — false  ! 

(  While  she  speaks,  a  monk  enters  her  apartment, 
and  approaches  unobserved.) 

Monk.     Refuge  thou  hast, 

Sweet  daughter  !  in  Heaven.      Think  of  eternal  things  ! 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray  ! 

LaL  {arising  hurriedly).     I  cannot  pray!  —  My  soul 

is  at  war  with  God  ! 

The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturb  my  senses  —  go  !  I  cannot  pray  — 
The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me  ! 
Thy  presence  grieves  me  —  go  !  —  thy  priestly  raiment 
Fills  me  with  dread  —  thy  ebony  crucifix 
With  horror  and  awe  ! 

Monk.     Think  of  thy  precious  soul ! 

Lai.     Think  of  my  early  days  !  —  think  of  my  father 
And  mother  in  Heaven  !  think  of  our  quiet  home, 
And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door  ! 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  193 

Think  of  my  little  sisters  .  —  think  of  them  ! 

And  think  of  me  !  —  think  of  my  trusting  love 

And  confidence  —  his  vows  —  my  ruin  —  think  —  think 

Of  my  unspeakable  misery  ! begone  ! 

Yet  stay  !  yet  stay  !  —  what  was  it  thou  saidst  of  prayei 
And  penitence  ?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 
And  vows  before  the  throne  ? 

Monk.     I  did. 

Lai     T  is  well. 

There  is  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made  — 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative  and  urgent, 
A  solemn  vow ! 

Monk.     Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well ! 

Lai     Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well ! 
Hast  thou  a  crucifix  fit  for  this  thing? 
A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 
This  sacred  vow  ?     (He  hands  her  his  own.) 
Not  that—  Oh  !  no  !  —  no  !  —  no  !     (Shuddering.) 
Not  that !     Not  that !  —  I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
Thy  raiments  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me ! 
Stand  back  !     I  have  a  crucifix  myself,  — 
/  have  a  crucifix  !     Methinks  't  were  fitting 
The  deed  —  the  vow  —  the  symbol  of  the  deed  — 
And  the  deed's  register  should  tally,  father ! 

(Draws  a  cross-handled  dagger  and  raises  it  on  high.) 
Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine    . 
Is  written  in  Heaven  ! 


T94  SCENES   FROM   "  POLITIAN." 

Monk.     Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  unholy  —  thy  lips  are  livid  — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild  —  tempt  not  the  wrath  divine  ! 
Pause  ere  too  late  !  —  Oh  be  not  —  be  not  rash  ! 
Swear  not  the  oath  —  oh  swear  it  not ! 

Lai.     'T is  sworn! 

III. 

An  apartment  in  a  palace.     Politian  and  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.  —  Arouse  thee  now,  Politian  ! 
Thou  must  not  —  nay  indeed,  indeed,  thou  shalt  not 
Give  way  unto  these  humors.     Be  thyself  ! 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live,  for  now  thou  diest ! 

Politian.     Not  so,  Baldazzar  ! 
Surely  I  live. 

Bal.     Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 

Pol.     Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honored  friend. 
Command  me,  sir  !  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 
At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my  forefathers  I  did  inherit, 
Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, 
And  be  no  more  Pol'tian,  but  some  other. 
Command  me,  sir ! 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  *95 

BaL     To  the  field,  then  —  to  the  field  — 
To  the  senate  or  the  field. 

Pol.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there  ! 
There  is  an  imp  hiith  followed  me  even  there  ! 
There  is what  voice  was  that? 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 
I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 
And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 

Pol.     Then  I  but  dreamed. 

Bal.     Give  not  thy  soul  to  dreams  :  the  camp  —  the 

court 

Befit  thee  —  Fame  awaits  thee  —  Glory  calls  — 
And  her  the  trumpet-tongued  thou  wilt  not  hear 
In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 

Pol.     It  is  a  phantom  voice  ! 
Didst  thou  not  hear  it  then  ? 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 

Pol.     Thou    heardst  it  not!  —  Baldazzar,   speak    no 

more 

To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  courts. 
Oh !  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 
Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 
Of  the  populous  Earth !     Bear  with  me  yet  awhile  ! 
We  have  been  boys  together  —  school-fellows  — 
And  now  are  friends  —  yet  shall  not  be  so  long  — 


196  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

For  in  the  eternal  city  thou  shalt  do  me 
A  kind  and  gentle  office,  and  a  Power  — 
A  Power  august,  benignant,  and  supreme  — 
Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  further  duties 
Unto  thy  friend. 

Bal.     Thou  speakest  a  fearful  riddle 
I  will  not  understand. 

PoL     Yet  now  as  Fate 

Approaches,  and  the  Hours  are  breathing  low, 
The  sands  of  Time  are  changed  to  golden  grains, 
And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
I  cannot  die,  having  within  my  heart 
So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 
As  hath  been  kindled  within  it.     Methinks  the  air 
Is  balmier  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be  — 
Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds  — 
A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth  — 
And  with  a  holier  lustre  the  quiet  moon 
Sitteth  in  Heaven.  —  Hist !  hist !  thou  canst  not  say 
Thou  hearest  not  now,  Baldazzar  ? 

Bal.     Indeed  I  hear  not. 

PoL      Not     hear     it  ?  —  listen     now  —  listen  !  —  the 

faintest  sound 

And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard  ! 
A  lady's  voice  !  —  and  sorrow  in  the  tone  ! 
Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell  ! 
Again  !  —  again  !  —  how  solemnly  it  falls 


SCENES    FROM   "  POLITIAN.  197 

Into  my  heart  of  hearts  !  that  eloquent  voice 
Surely  I  never  heard  —  yet  it  were  well 
Had  I  but  heard  it  with  its  thrilling  tones 
In  earlier  days  ! 

BaL     I  myself  hear  it  now. 
Be  still  !  —  the  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Proceeds  from  yonder  lattice  —  which  you  may  see 
Very  plainly  through  the  window —  it  belongs, 
Does  it  not  ?  unto  this  palace  of  the  Duke. 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  his  Excellency  —  and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spake 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 

FoL     Be  still !  —  it  comes  again  ! 

Voice         "  And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
(very  faintly) .     As  for  to  leave  me  thus 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay  —  say  nay  ! " 

BaL     The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have  heard  it 
In  merry  England  —  never  so  plaintively  — 
Hist !  hist !  it  comes  again  1 


J9  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

Voice          "  Is  it  so  strong 
(more  loudly).     As  for  to  leave  me  thus 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  —  say  nay  !  " 

Bal.     'T  is  hushed  and  all  is  still ! 

Pol.     All  is  not  still. 

Bal.     Let  us  go  down. 

Pol.     Go  down,  Baldazzar,  go  ! 

Bal.     The  hour  is  growing  late  —  the  Duke  awaits 

us,— 

Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.     What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politian  ? 

Voice  "  Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 

(distinctly).         In  wealth  and  woe  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  ? 
Say  nay  —  say  nay  !  " 

Bal.     Let  us  descend  !  —  't  is  time.     Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Remember,  pray, 
Your  bearing  lately  savored  much  of  rudeness 
Unto  the  Duke.     Arouse  thee  !  and  remember  ! 

Pol.     Remember  ?     I  do.    Lead  on  !   I  do  remember. 

(Going.) 
Let  us  descend.     Believe  me  I  would  give, 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN.  199 

Freely  would  give  the  broad  lands  of  my  earldom 
To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice  — 
"  To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue." 

Bal.     Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 

Descend  with  me  —  the  Duke  may  be  offended. 
Let  us  go  clown,  I  pray  you. 

Voice  (loudly).     Say  nay  ! —  say  nay  ! 

Pol.  (aside'}.     'Tis    strange!  —  'tis   very   strange — • 

methought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires  and  bade  me  stay ! 

(Approaching  the  window) 
Sweet  voice  !  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  Fancy,  by  Heaven,  or  be  it  Fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.     Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  the  Duke  for  me  ; 
I  go  not  clown  to-night. 

Bal.     Your  lordship's  pleasure 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good-night,  Politian. 

Pol.     Good-night,  my  friend,  good-night. 


IV. 

The  gardens  of  a  palace  —  Moonlight.     Lalage  and  Pclitian. 

La/age.     And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  me,  Politian  ?  dost  thou  speak  of  love 


200  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN. 

To  Lalage  ?  —  ah  woe  —  ah  woe  is  me  ! 

This  mockery  is  most  cruel  —  most  cruel  indeed  ! 

Politian.     Weep  not !   oh,  sob  not  thus  !  —  thy  bitter 

tears 

Will  madden  me.     Oh,  mourn  not,  Lalage  — 
Be  comforted  !     I  know  —  I  know  it  all, 
And  'still  I  speak  of  love.     Look  at  me,  brightest, 
And  beautiful  Lalage  !  turn  here  thine  eyes  ! 
Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  speak  of  love, 
Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen. 
Thou  askest  me  that  —  and  thus  I  answer  thee  — 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee. 

(Kneeling?) 

Sweet  Lalage,  I  love  thee —  love  thee  —  love  thee  ; 
Thro'  good  and  ill  —  thro'  weal  and  woe  I  love  thee. 
Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 
Thrills  with  intenser  love  than  I  for  thee. 
Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 
Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 
Within  my  spirit  for  thee.     And  do  I  love  ? 

(Arising.) 

Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee  —  even  for  thy  woes  — 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  woes. 

LaL     Alas,  proud  Earl, 
Thou  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me  ! 
How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 
Pure  and  reproachless  of  thy  princely  line, 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN.  2OI 

Could  the  dishonored  Lalage  abide  ? 

Thy  wife,  and  with  a  tainted  memory  — 

My  seared  and  blighted  name,  how  would  it  tally 

With  the  ancestral  honors  of  thy  house, 

And  with  thy  glory  ? 

Pol.     Speak  not  to  me  of  glory ! 
I  hate  —  I  loathe  the  name  ;  I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 
Art  thou  not  Lalage  and  I  Politian  ? 
Do  I  not  love  ?  —  art  thou  not  beautiful  ?  — 
What  need  we  more  ?    Ha  !  glory !  —  now  speak  not  of  it 
By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn  — 
By  all  my  wishes  now  —  my  fears  hereafter  — 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth  and  hope  in  heaven  — 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in, 
Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory 
And  trample  it  under  foot.     What  matters  it  — 
What  matters  it,  my  fairest,  and  my  best, 
That  we  go  down  unhonored  and  forgotten 
Into  the  dust  —  so  we  descend  together? 
Descend  together  —  and  then  —  and  then  perchance  — 

Lai.     Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 

Pol.     And  then  perchance 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwellings  of  the  blest, 
And  still  — 

Lai.     Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 


202  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

Pol.     And  still  together  —  together. 

Lai.     Now,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

Pol.     Oh,  Lalage  !     {Throwing  himself  upon  his  knee.} 
And  lovest  thou  me  ? 

Lai.     Hist !  hush  !     Within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  past  — 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn,  and  slow,  and  noiseless  — 
Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and  noiseless. 

(  Walks  across  and  returns. ) 
I  was  mistaken  —  't  was  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian  ! 

Pol.     My  Lai  age  —  my  love  !  why  art  thou  moved  ? 
Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale?     Not  Conscience'  self, 
Far  less  a  shadow  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 
Should  shake  the  firm  spirit  thus.     But  the  night-wind 
Is  chilly  —  and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

Lai.     Politian ! 

Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou  the  land 
With  which  all  tongues  are  busy  —  a  land  new  found  — 
Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa  — 
A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west? 
A  fairy  land  of  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  sunshine, 
And  crystal  lakes,  and  over-arching  forests,  [winds 

And  mountains,  around   whose   towering   summits  the 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN.  203 

Of  Heaven  untrammelled  flow  —  which  air  to  breathe 
Is  Happiness  now,  and  will  be  Freedom  hereafter 
In  days  that  are  to  come  ? 

Pol.     O,  wilt  thou  —  wilt  thou 
Fly  to  that  Paradise  —  my  Lai  age,  wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me  ?     There  Care  shall  be  forgotten, 
And  Sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all. 
And  life  shall  then  be  mine,  for  I  will  live 
For  thee,  and  in  thine  eyes  —  and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner  —  but  the  radiant  Joys 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the  angel  Hope 
Attend  thee  ever;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee 
And  worship  thee,  and  call  thee  my  beloved, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  love,  my  wife, 
My  all ;  —  oh,  wilt  thou  —  wilt  thou,  Lalage, 
Fly  thither  with  me  ? 

Lai.     A  deed  is  to  be  done  — 
Castiglione  lives ! 

Pol.     And  he  shall  die  !     (Exit.) 

Lai.  (after  a  pause).     And  —  he  —  shall  —  die  —  alas  ! 
Castiglione  die  ?     Who  spoke  the  words  ? 
Where  am  I  ?  —  what  was  it  he  said  ?  —  Poliiian  ! . 
Thou  art  not  gone  —  thou  art  not  gone,  Politian  ! 
I  fed  thou  art  not  gone  —  yet  dare  not  look, 
Lest  I  behold  thee  not ;  thou  couldst  not  go 
With  those  words  upon  thy  lips  —  O,  speak  to  me  ! 
And  let  me  hear  thy  voice  —  one  word  —  one  word, 


204  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

To  say  thou  art  not  gone,  —  one  little  sentence, 

To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn  —  how  thou  dost  hate 

My  womanly  weakness.     Ha  !  ha  !  thou  art  not  gone  — 

0  speak  to  me !     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go  ! 

1  knew  thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  not,  durst  not  go. 
Villain,  thou  art  not  gone  —  thou  mockest  me  ! 

And  thus  I  clutch  thee  —  thus  ! He  is  gone,  he  is 

gone  — 
Gone  —  gone.     Where    am    I  ?  —  't  is   well  —  't  is  very 

well  ! 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen  —  the  blow  be  sure, 
'T  is  well,  't  is  very  well  —  alas  !  alas  ! 


V. 

The  suburbs.     Politian  alone. 

Politian.    This  weakness  grows  upon  me.    I  am  faint, 
And  much  I  fear  me  ill  —  it  will  not  do 
To  die  ere  I  have  lived  !  —  Stay  —  stay  thy  hand, 
O  Azrael,  yet  awhile  !  —  Prince  of  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness  and  the  Tomb,  O  pity  me  ! 
O  pity  me  !  let  me  not  perish  now, 
In  the  budding  of  my  Paradisal  Hope  ! 
Give  me  to  live  yet  —  yet  a  little  while  : 
'T  is  I  who  pray  for  life  —  I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die  !  — what  sayeth  the  Count  ? 


SCENES    FROM   "  POLITIAN."  205 


Enter  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.     That  knowing  no  cause  of  quarrel  or  of 

feud  0 

Between  the  Earl  Politian  and  himself, 
He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 

Pol.      What  didst  thou  say? 

What  answer  was  it  you  brought  me,  good  Baldazzar  ? 
With  what  excessive  fragrance  the  zephyr  comes 
Laden  from  yonder  bowers  !  —  a  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks 
No  mortal  eyes  have  seen  !  —  what  said  the  Count  ? 

BaL     That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 
Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 
Of  quarrel  between  your  lordship  and  himself, 
Cannot  accept  the  challenge. 

Pol.     It  is  most  true  — 
All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  sir, 
\Vhen  saw  you  now,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Ungenial  Britain  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this  —  so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds  ?  —  and  he  did  say? 

Bal.     No  more,  my  lord,  than  I  have  told  you,  sir : 
The  Count  Castiglione  will  not  fight, 
Having  no  cause  or  quarrel. 

Pol.     Now  this  is  true  — 
All  very  true.     Thou  art  my  friend,  Baldazzar, 
And  I  have  not  forgotten  it  —  thou  'It  do  me 
A  piece  of  service  ;  wilt  thou  go  back  and  say 


206  SCENES    FROM   "  POLITIAN." 

Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain  ?  —  thus  much,  I  prythee,  say 
Unto  the  Count  —  it  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 

Bal.     My  lord  !  —  my  friend  — 

Pol.  (aside}.     'Tis  he  —  he  comes  himself!     (Aloud.} 

Thou  reasonest  well. 

I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say  —  not  send  the  message  — 
Well !  —  I  will  think  of  it —  I  will  not  send  it. 
Now  prithee,  leave  me  —  hither  doth  come  a  person 
With  whom  affairs  of  a  most  private  nature 
I  would  adjust. 

Bal.     I  go  —  to-morrow  we  meet, 
Do  we  not  ?  —  at  the  Vatican. 

Pol.     At  the  Vatican.  (Exit  Bal.) 

Enter  Castiglione. 

Cas.     The  Earl  of  Leicester  here  ! 

Pol.     I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  thou  seest, 
Dost  thou  not  ?  that  I  am  here. 

Cas.     My  lord,  some  strange, 
Some  singular  mistake  —  misunderstanding  — 
Hath  without  doubt  arisen :  thou  hast  been  urged 
Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 
To  me,  Castiglione  ;  the  bearer  being 
Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 
Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thee  in  this  thing, 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN.  207 

Having  given  thee  no  offence.     Ha  !  —  am  I  right  ? 
'T  was  a  mistake  ?  —  undoubtedly  —  \ve  all 
Do  err  at  times 

Pol.     Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more  ! 

Cas      Ha  !  —  draw  !  —  and  villain  !  have  at  thee  then 

at  once, 
Proud  Earl !  (Draws.} 

Pol  (drawing).     Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thee 
In  the  name  of  Lalage  ! 

Cas.  (letting fall  his  sword  and  recoiling  to  the  extremity 

of  the  stage). 
Of  Lalage  ! 

Hold  off : —  thy  sacred  hand  !  —  avaunt  I  say  ! 
A  vaunt  —  I  will  not  fight  thee  —  indeed  I  dare  not. 

Pol.    Thou  wilt  not  fight  with  me  didst  say*  Sir  Count  ? 
Shall  1  be  baffled  thus  ?  —  now  this  is  well  ; 
Didst  say  thou  dares  t  not  ?     Ha  ! 

Cas.     I  dare  not  —  dare  not  — 
Hold  off  thy  hand  —  with  that  beloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee  — 
I  cannot  —  dare  not. 

Pol.     Now  by  my  halidom 
I  do  believe  thee  !  —  coward,  I  do  believe  thee  ! 

Cas.     Ha  !  —  coward  !  —  this  may  not  be  ! 

(Clutches  his  sword,  and  staggers  towards  Politian,  but 
his  purpose  is  changed  before  reaching  him,  and  he 
falls  upon  his  knee  at  the  feet  of  the  Earl.} 


208  SCENES    FROM 

Alas !  my  lord, 

It  is  —  it  is  —  most  true.     In  such  a  cause 
I  am  the  veriest  coward.     O  pity  me  !  [thee. 

PoL  (greatly  softened}.    Alas  !  —  I  do  —  indeed  I  pity 

Cas.     And  Lalage  — 

Pol.     Scoundrel !  —  arise  and  die  / 

Cas.     It  needeth  not  be  —  thus  —  thus  —  O  let  me  die 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee.     It  were  most  fitting 
That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish. 
For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 
Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.     Strike  thou  home  — 

(baring  his  bosom). 

Here  is  no  let  or  hinderance  to  thy  weapon  — 
Strike  home.     I  will  not  fight  thee. 

Pol     Now  s'Death  and  Hell ! 
Am  I  not  —  am  I  not  sorely  —  grievously  tempted 
To  take  thee  at  thy  word  ?     But  mark  me,  sir : 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus.     Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets  —  before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I  '11  follow  thee  — 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  I  '11  follow  thee 
Even  unto  death.     Before  those  whom  thou  lovest  — 
Before  all  Rome  I  '11  taunt  thee,  villain  —  I  '11  taunt  thee, 
Dost  hear  ?  with  cowardice —  thou  wilt  not  fight  me  ? 
Thou  liest !  thou  shalt !  (Exit.) 

Cas.     Now  this  indeed  is  just ! 
Most  righteous,  and  most  just,  avenging  Heaven. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN   YOUTH  * 


SONNET  — TO  SCIENCE. 

IIENCE  !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art ! 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 
Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wancleiing 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car  ? 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree  ? 


*  Private  reasons  —  some  of  which  have  reference  to  the  sin  of  plagiarism, 
and  others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first  poems  —  have  induced  me,  after  some 
hesitation,  to  republish  these,  the  crude  compositions  of  my  earliest  boyhood. 
They  are  printed  verbatim^  without  alteration  from  the  original  edition,  the  date 
of  which  is  too  remote  to  be  judiciously  acknowledged.  E.  A.  P. 


210  AL   AARAAF. 

AL   AARAAF.* 

PART    I. 

<  NOTHING  earthly  save  the  ray 
(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  Beauty's  eye, 
As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 

Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy  —  * 

O  !  notking  earthly  save  the  thrill 

Of  melody  in  woodland  rill  — 

Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 

Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed 

That  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 

Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell  — 

O  !  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours  — 

Yet  all  the  beauty  —  all  the  flowers 

That  list  our  Love,  and  deck  our  bowers  — 

Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar  — 

The  wandering  star. 

'T  was  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace  —  for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns  —  a  temporary  rest  — 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 


*  A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Brahe,  which  appeared  suddenly  in  the  heav 
ens  ;  attained,  in  a  few  days,  a  brilliancy  surpassing  that  of  Jupiter ;  then  as  sud« 
deuly  disappeared,  and  has  never  been  seen  since. 


AL    AARAAF.  211 

Away  —  away — 'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendor  o'er  the  unchained  soul  — 
The  soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destin'd  eminence  — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time,  she  rode, 
And  late  to  ours,  the  f  avor'd  one  of  God  — 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchor'd  realm, 
She  throws  aside  the  sceptre  —  leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limbs. 

Now  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  Earth, 
Whence  sprang  the  "  Idea  of  Beauty  "  into  birth, 
(Falling  in  wreaths  thro'  many  a  startled  star, 
Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until,  afar, 
It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there,  dwelt) 
She  look'd  into  Infinity  —  and  knelt. 
Rich  clouds,  for  canopies,  about  her  curled  — 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world  — 
Seen  but  in  beauty  —  not  impeding  sight 
Of  other  beauty  glittering  thro'  the  light  — 
A  wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around, 
And  all  the  opal'd  air  in  color  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of /lowers :  of  lilies  such  as  rear'd  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,*  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 

*  On  Santa  Maura  —  olim  Deucadia. 


212  AL   AARAAF. 

Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of  —  deep  pride  — 
Of  her  who  lov'd  a  mortal  —  and  so  died* 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Uprear'd  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees : 
And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnam'd  |  — 
Inmate  of  highest  stars,  where  erst  it  sham'd 
All  other  loveliness  :  its  honied  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew) 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropp'd  from  Heaven, 
And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiven 
In  Trebizond  —  and  on  a  sunny  flower 
So  like  its  own  above  that,  to  this  hour, 
It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 
With  madness,  and  unwonted  reverie : 
In  Heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 
And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  in  grief 
Disconsolate  linger  —  grief  that  hangs  her  head, 
Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled, 
Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 
Like  guilty  beauty,  chasten'd,  and  more  fair  : 
Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 
She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 
And  Clytia$  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 
While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run  : 

*  Sappho. 

t  This  flower  is  much  noticed  by  Lewenhoeck  and  Tournefort.  The  bee, 
feeding  upon  its  blossom,  becomes  intoxicated. 

$  Clytia,  —  the  Chrysanthemum  Peruvianum,  or,  to  employ  a  better-known 
term,  the  Turnsoi,  —  which  turns  continually  towards  the  sun,  covers  itself,  like 


AL   AARAAF.  213 

And  that  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  Earth 
And  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth,* 
Bursting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 
Its  way  to  Heaven,  from  garden  of  a  king : 
And  Valisnerian  lotus  t  thither  flown 
From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone  : 
And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume,  Zante  !  t 
Isola  d'oro  !   Fior  di  Levante  ! 
And  the  Nelumbo  bud  §  that  floats  for  ever 
With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river  — 
Fair  flowers,  and  fairy  !  to  whose  care  is  given 
To  bear  the  Goddess'  song  in  odors,  up  to  Heaven :  || 
"  Spirit !  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 

The  terrible  and  fair, 

In  beauty  vie ! 

Peru,  the  country  from  which  it  comes,  with  dewy  clouds  which  cool  and  refresh 
its  flowers  during  the  most  violent  heat  of  the  day.  —  B.  de  St.  Pierre. 

*  There  is  cultivated  in  the  king's  garden  at  Paris  a  species  of  serpentine  aloes 
without  prickles,  whose  large  and  beautiful  flower  exhales  a  strong  odor  of  the 
vanilla,  during  the  time  of  its  expansion,  which  is  very  short.  It  does  not  blow 
till  towards  the  month  of  July  :  you  then  perceive  it  gradually  open  its  petals,  ex 
pand  them,  fade  and  die.  —  St.  Pierre. 

t  There  is  found,  in  the  Rhone,  a  beautiful  lily  of  the  Valisnerian  kind.  Its 
stem  will  stretch  to  the  length  of  three  or  four  feet,  thus  preserving  its  head  above 
water  in  the  swellings  of  the  river. 

$  The  Hyacinth. 

§  It  is  a  fiction  of  the  Indians,  that  Cupid  was  first  seen  floating  in  one  of  these 
down  the  river  Ganges,  and  that  he  still  loves  the  cradle  of  his  childhood. 

II  And  golden  vials  full  of  odors  which  are  the  piayers  of  the  saints.  —  Rev.  St. 
John. 


214  AL    AARAAF. 

Beyond  the  line  of  blue  — 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar  — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  pride,  and  from  their  throne 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last  — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part  — 
Who  livest  —  that  we  know  — 

In  Eternity  —  we  feel  — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What  spirit  shall  reveal  ? 
Thro'  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 

Thy  messenger  hath  known 
Have  dream'd  for  thy  Infinity 

A  model  of  their  own*  — 


*  The  Humanitarians  held  that  God  was  to  be  understood  as  having  really  a 
human  form. —  Vide  Clarke1  s  Sermons,  vol.  i,  page  26,  fol.  edit. 

The  drift  of  Milton's  argument  leads  him  to  employ  language  which  would 
appear,  at  first  sight,  to  verge  upon  their  doctrine ;  but  it  will  be  seen  immediately, 
that  he  guards  himself  against  the  charge  of  having  adopted  one  of  the  most 
ignorant  errors  of  the  dark  ages  of  the  church.  —  Dr.  Simmer's  Notes  on  Milton's 
Christian  Doctrine. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  the  contrary,  could  never  have 
been  very  general.  Andeus,  a  Syrian  of  Mesopotamia,  was  condemned  for  the 


AL    AARAAF.  215 

Thy  will  is  done,  O  God ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Thro'  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye  ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee  — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire  and  so  be 
A  partner  of  thy  throne  — 
By  winged  Fantasy,* 

My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 
In  the  environs  of  Heaven." 
She  ceas'd  —  and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek 
Abash'd  amid  the  lilies  there,  to  seek 
A  shelter  from  the  fervor  of  His  eye  ; 
For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 
She  stirr'd  not  —  breath'd  not  —  for  a  voice  was  there 
How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air ! 

opinion,  as  heretical.     He  lived  in  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century.     Hia 
disciples  were  called  Anthropomorphites. —  Vide  Du  Pin. 
Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines  : 

Dicite  sacrorum  prassides  nemorum  Deac,  etc. 
Quis  ille  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  finxit  humanum  genus? 
Eternus,  incorruptus,  aequsevus  polo, 
Unusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei.  —  And  afterwards, 
Non  cui  profundum  Cscitas  lumen  dedit 
Dircaens  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  sinu,  etc. 
*  Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskinde 
Der  Phantasie.  —  Goethe. 


2l6  AL    AARAAF. 

A  sound  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear 

Which  dreamy  poets  name  "  the  music  of  the  sphere." 

Ours  is  a  world  of  words:  Quiet  we  call 

"  Silence  "  —  which  is  the  merest  word  of  all. 

All  Nature  speaks,  and  ev'n  ideal  things 

Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings  — 

But  ah !  not  so  when,  thus,  in  realms  on  high 

The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 

And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky  ! 

"What  tho'  in  worlds  which  sightless*  cycles  run, 
Link'd  to  a  little  system,  and  one  sun  — 
Where  all  my  love  is  folly,  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder-cloud, 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  and  the  ocean-wrath  — 
(Ah !  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path  ?) 
What  tho'  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 
The  sands  of  Time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 
Yet  thine  is  my  resplendency,  so  given 
To  bear  my  secrets  thro'  the  upper  Heaven, 
Leave  tenantless  thy  crystal  home,  and  fly, 
With  all  thy  train,  athwart  the  moony  sky  — 
Apart  —  like  fire-flies  t  in  Sicilian  night, 
And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 
Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 
To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle  —  and  so  be 

*  Sightless  —  too  small  to  be  seen.  —  Legge. 

t  I  have  often  noticed  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  fire-flies.    They  will  collect 
in  a  body  and  fly  off,  from  a  common  centre,  into  innumerable  radii. 


AL    AARAAF.  217 

To  ev'ry  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban 

Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man !  " 

Up  rose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve  !  —  on  Earth  we  plight 
Our  faith  to  one  love  —  and  one  moon  adore  — 
The  birthplace  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way  —  but  left  not  yet  her  Therassean  *  reign. 


PART   II. 

High  on  a  mountain  of  enamell'd  head  — 

Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 

Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  his  ease, 

Raising  his  heavy  eyelid,  starts  and  sees 

With  many  a  mutter'd  "  hope  to  be  forgiven  " 

What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  Heaven  — 

Of  rosy  head,  that  towering  far  away 

Into  the  sunlit  ether,  caught  the  ray 

Of  sunken  suns  at  eve  —  at  noon  of  night, 

While  the  moon  danc'd  with  the  fair  stranger  light 


*  Thcrasasa,  or  Therasea,  the  island  mentioned  by  Seneca,  which,  in  a  moment, 
arose  from  the  sea  to  the  eyes  of  astonished  mariners. 


2l8  AL    AARAAF. 

Uprear'd  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 

Of  gorgeous  columns  on  th*  unburthen'd  air, 

Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 

Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 

And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 

Of  molten  stars*  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 

Thro'  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 

Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die  — 

Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 

A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  Heaven  let  down, 

Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown  — 

A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 

Look'd  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 

And  rays  from  God  shot  clown  that  meteor  chain 

And  hallow'd  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 

Save  when,  between  th'  Empyrean  and  that  ring, 

Some  eager  spirit  flapp'd  his  dusky  wing. 

But  on  the  pillars  Seraph  eyes  have  seen 

The  dimness  of  this  world  :  that  grayish  green 

That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 

Lurk'd  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave  — 

And  every  sculptur'd  cherub  thereabout 

That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out, 

Seem'd  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche  — 

Achaian  statues  in  a  world  so  rich? 

*  Some  star  which,  from  the  ruin'd  roof 
Of  shak'd  Olympus,  by  mischance  did  fall.  —  Milton. 


AL    AARAAF.  219 

Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis  *  — 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  !  f     Oh  !  the  wave       * 
Is  now  upon  thee  —  but  too  late  to  save  ! 

Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night : 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  gray  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco,$ 
Of  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago  — 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim. 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud  — 
Is  not  its  form  —  its  voice  —  most  palpable  and  loud  ?  § 

But  what  is  this?  —  it  cometh  —  and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it  —  'tis  the  rush  of  wings  — 

*  Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Persepolis,  says,  "  Je  connois  bien  1' admiration  qu'- 
inspirent  ces  ruines  —  mais  un  palais  erig^  au  pied  d'une  chaine  des  rochers  sterila 

—  peut  il  etre  un  chef  d'ceuvre  des  arts !  " 

t  "Oh  !  the  wave"— Ula  Degtiisi  is  the  Turkish  appellation  ;  but,  on  its  own 
shores,  it  is  called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah.  There  were  undoubtedly  more 
than  two  cities  engulfed  in  the  "dead  sea."  In  the  valley  of  Siddim  were  five, 

—  Adrah,  Zeboin,  Zoar,  Sodom,  and  Gomorrah.    Stephen  of  Byzantium  mentions 
eight,  and  Strabo  thirteen  (engulfed)  — but  the  last  is  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St.  Saba,.  Nau,  Maundrell, 
Troilo,  D'Arvieux]  that  after  an  excessive  drought,  the  vestiges  of  columns,  walls, 
etc  ,  are  seen  above  the  surface.  At  any  season,  such  remains  may  be  discovered 
by  looking  down  into  the  transparent  lake,  and  at  such  distances  as  would  argue 
the  existence  of  many  settlements  in  the  space  now  usurped  by  the  "Asphaltites." 

J  Eyraco  —  Chaldea. 

§  I  have  often  thought  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of  the  darkness  as  it 
stole  over  the  horizon. 


220  AL   AARAAF. 

A  pause  —  and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her  cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart ; 
And  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart. 
Within  the  centre  of  that  hall  to  breathe 
She  paus'cl  and  panted,  Zanthe  !  all  beneath, 
The  fairy  light  that  kiss'd  her  golden  hair 
And  long'd  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there ! 

Young  flowers*  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  night  —  and  tree  to  tree  ; 
Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove,  or  moon-lit  dell ; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things  — 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls,  and  angel  wings  — 
And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang :  — 

"  'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer  — 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps,  from  the  dreamer, 
The  moonbeam  away  f — 

*  Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery.  —  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

t  In  Scripture  is  this  passage  :  "The  sun  shall  not  harm  thee  by  day,  nor  the 
moon  by  night."  It  is  perhaps  not  generally  known  that  the  moon,  in  Egypt,  has 
the  effect  of  producing  blindness  to  those  who  sleep  with  the  face  exposed  to  its 
rays,  to  which  circumstance  the  passage  evidently  alludes. 


AL    AARAAF.  221 

Bright  beings  !  that  ponder, 

With  half-closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  thro*  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow 
Like  —  eyes  of  the  maiden 
Who  calls  on  you  now  — 
Arise  !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours  — 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumber'd  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too  — 
(O  !  how,  without  you,  Love  ! 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

That  lull'd  ye  to  rest ! 
Up  !  shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing : 
The  dew  of  the  night  — 

It  would  weigh  down  your  flight ; 
And  true  love  caresses  — 

O  !  leave  them  apart ! 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 
But  lead  on  the  heart. 


AL   AARAAF. 

Ligeia !  Ligeia  ! 

My  beautiful  one ! 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run, 
O  !  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  Albatross,* 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ? 

"  Ligeia  !  wherever 

Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep  — 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep  — 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower  — 

*  The  Albatross  is  said  to  sleep  on  the  wing. 


AL    AARAAF.  223 


The  murmur  that  springs  * 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things  — 

But  are  modelPd,  alas  !  — 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

O  !  hie  the  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray  — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles, 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast  — 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid  — 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee  f  — 


*  I  met  with  this  idea  in  an  old  English  tale,  which  I  am  now  unable  to  obtain 
and  quote  from  memory  :  **  The  verie  essence  and,  as  it  were,  springe-heade 
and  origine  of  all  musiche  is  the  verie  pleasaunte  sounde  which  the  trees  of  the 
forest  do  make  when  they  growe." 

t  The  wild  bee  will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moonlight. 

•The  rhyme  in  this  verse,  as  in  one  about  sixty  lines  before,  has  an  appearance 
of  affectation.  It  is,  however, 'imitated  from  Sir  \V.  Scott,  or  rather  from  Claude 
Halero  —  in  whose  mouth  I  admired  its  effect :  — 

O !  were  there  an  island, 

Tho'  ever  so  wild 
Where  woman  might  smile,  and 

No  man  be  beguil'd,  etc. 


224  AL    AARAAF. 

Arouse  them  my  maiden, 

On  moorland  and  lea  — 
Go  !  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumber'cl  to  hear  — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon, 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lullM  him  to  rest?" 

Spirits  in  wing,  and  angels  to  the  view, 

A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  Empyrean  thro', 

Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  flight  - 

Seraphs  in  all  but  "  Knowledge,"  the  keen  light 

That  fell,  refracted,  thro'  thy  bounds,  afar 

O  Death !  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star  : 

Sweet  was  that  error  —  sweeter  still  that  death  — 

Sweet  was  that  error  —  ev'n  with  us  the  breath 

Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy  — 

To  them  't  were  the  Simoom,  and  would  destroy  — 

For  what  (to  them)  availeth  it  to  know 

That  Truth  is  Falsehood  —  or  that  Bliss  is  Woe  ? 


AL    AARAAF.  225 

Sweet  was  their  death  —  with  them  to  die  was  rife 

With  the  last  ecstacy  of  satiate  life  — 

Beyond  that  death  no  immortality  — 

But  sleep  that  pondereth  and  is  not  "  to  be  "  — 

And  there  — oh  !  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell  — 

Apart  from  Heaven's  Eternity  —  and  yet  how  far  from 

Hell  !  * 

What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn? 
But  two  :  they  fell :  for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 
To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 
A  maiden-angel  and  her  seraph-lover  — 
O  !  where  (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies  over) 
Was  Love,  the  blind,  near  sober  Duty  known  ? 
Unguided  Love  hath  fallen  —  'mid  "  tears  of  perfect 
moan."t 

*  With  the  Arabians  there  is  a  medium  betwe2n  Heaven  and  Hell,  where  men 
suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  attain   that  tranquil  and  even  happiness 
which  they  suppose  to  be  characteristic  of  heavenly  enjoyment. 
Un  no  rompido  sueno  — 
Un  dia  puro  —  allegre  —  libre 
Quiera  — 

Libre  de  amor  —  de  zelo  — 

De  odio  —  de  esperanza  —  de  rezelo.  —  L  uis  Ponce  de  Leon. 
Sorrow  is  not  excluded  from  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  but  it  is  that  sorrow  which  the  liv 
ing  love  to  cherish  for  the  dead,  and  which,  in  some  minds,  resembles  the 
delirium  of  opium.  The  passionate  excitement  of  Love  and  the  buoyancy  of 
spirit  attendant  upon  intoxication  are  its  less  holy  pleasures  —  the  price  of  which, 
to  those  souls  who  make  choice  of  "  Al  Aaraaf"  as  the  residence  after  life,  is  final 
death  and  annihilation. 

t  There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon.  —  Milton. 


226  AL   AARAAF. 

He  was  a  goodly  spirit  —  he  who  fell : 

A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well  — 

A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above  — 

A  dreamer  in  the  moonbeam  by  his  love  ! 

What  wonder  ?  for  each  star  is  eye-like  there, 

And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  Beauty's  hair  — 

And  they,  and  ev'ry  mossy  spring  were  holy 

To  his  love-haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 

The  night  had  found  (to  him  a  night  of  woe) 

Upon  a  mountain  crag,  young  Angelo  — 

Beetling,  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 

And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  beneath  it  lie. 

Here  sate  he  with  his  love  —  his  dark  eye  bent 

With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament : 

Now  turn'd  it  upon  her  —  but  ever  then 

It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  EARTH  again. 

"lanthe,  dearest,  see  !  how  dim  that  ray  ! 
How  lovely  't  is  to  look  so  far  away  ! 
She  seem'd  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 
I  left  her  gorgeous  halls  —  nor  mourned  to  leave. 
That  eve  —  that  eve  —  I  should  remember  well  — 
The  sun-ray  dropp'd,  in  Lemnos,  with  a  spell 
On  th'  Arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 
Wherein  I  sate,  and  on  the  draperied  wall  — 
And  on  my  eyelids  —  oh  the  heavy  light ! 
How  drowsily  it  weigh'd  them  into  night ! 


AL    AARAAF.  227 

On  flowers,  before,  and  mist,  and  love  they  ran 

With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan  : 

But  oh  that  light !  —  I  slumber'd  —  Death,  the  while, 

Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle 

So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 

Awoke  that  slept  —  or  knew  that  he  was  there. 

"  The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
Was  a  proud  temple  call'd  the  Parthenon  *  — 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  column'd  wall 
Than  ev'n  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal,f 
And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthral 
Thence  sprang  I  —  as  the  eagle  from  his  tower, 
And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  h^r  airy  bounds  I  hung 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view  — 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert  too  ! 
I  an  the,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wish'd  to  be  again  of  men." 

"  My  Angelo  !  and  why  of  them  to  be  ? 
A  brighter  dwelling-place  is  here  for  thee  — 
And  greener  fields  than  in  yon  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness  —  and  passionate  love." 

'  It  was  entire  in  1687  —  the  most  elevated  spot  in  Athens, 
t  Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of  Love.  —  Marlowe. 


228  AL    AARAAF. 

"  But,  list,  lanthe  !  when  the  air  so  soft 
Fail'd,  as  my  pennon'd  spirit  leapt  aloft,* 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy  —  but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  hurl'd  — 
Sprang  from  her  station,  on  the  winds  apart, 
And  roll'd,  a  flame,  the  fiery  Heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to  soar, 
And  fell  —  not  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 
But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion  thro' 
Light,  brazen  rays,  this  golden  star  unto  ! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours. 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours  — 
Dread  star  !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Daedalion  on  the  timid  Earth. 

"  We  came  —  and  to  thy  Earth  —  but  not  to  us 
Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss  : 
We  came,  my  love ;  around,  above,  below, 
Gay  fire-fly  of  the  night  we  come  and  go, 
Nor  ask  a  reason  save  the  angel-nod 
She  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God  — 
But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurPd 
Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairer  world  ! 
Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  angel  eyes 
Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 

*  Pennon  —  for  pinion.  —  Milton* 


TO    THE    RIVER .  229 

When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 

Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  starry  sea  — 

But  when  its  glory  swell'd  upon  the  sky, 

As  glowing  Beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye, 

We  paus'd  before  the  heritage  of  men, 

And  thy  star  trembled  —  as  doth  Beauty  then  !  " 

Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whiled  away        [day. 
The  night  that  waned  and  waned  and  brought  no 
They  fell :  for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  imparts 
Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 


TO   THE   RIVER 


AIR  river  !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 

Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 
Of  beauty  —  the  unhidden  heart 
The  playful  maziness  of  art 
In  old  Alberto's  daughter  ; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks  — 

Which  glistens  then,  and  trembles  — 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  brooks 

Her  worshipper  resembles  ; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies  — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


230  TAMERLANE. 

TAMERLANE. 

|IND  solace  in  a  dying  hour  ! 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme  - 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revelPd  in  — 

I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream  : 
You  call  it  hope  —  that  fire  of  fire ! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire  : 
If  I  can  hope  —  oh  God  !  I  can  — 

Its  fount  is  holier  —  more  divine  — 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 

But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bow'd  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 
O  yearning  heart !     I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 
The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 
Amid  the  jewels  of  my  throne, 
Halo  of  Hell !  and  with  a  pain 
Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again  — 
O  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours  ! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  thy  emptiness  —  a  knell. 


TAMERLANE.  231 

I  have  not  always  been  as  now : 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly  — 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 

Rome  to  the  Caesar — this  to  me  ? 
The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 

Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 
On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life  : 

The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head, 
And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 
And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 

So  late  from  Heaven  —  that  dew  —  it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice, 

My  own  voice,  silly  child  !  —  was  swelling 

(O  !  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory  1 


23 2  TAMERLANE. 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unshelter'd  — and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 
It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 
Laurels  upon  me  :  and  the  rush  — 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air 
Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crush 

Of  empires  —  with  the  captive's  prayer  — 
The  hum  of  suitors  —  and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurp'd  a  tyrann}^  which  men 
Have  deem'd,  since  I  have  reach'd  to  power, 
My  innate  nature  — be  it  so  : 

But,  father,  there  liv'd  one  who,  then, 
Then  —  in  my  boyhood  —  when  their  fire 

Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire) 

E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 

In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words  —  alas  !  —  to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 
Are  —  shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind  : 


TAMERLANE. 

Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters  —  with  their  meaning  —  melt 

To  fantasies  —  with  none. 

O,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love  ! 

Love  —  as  in  infancy  was  mine  — 
'T  was  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy ;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 

Were  incense  —  then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  arrd  upright  — 
Pure  —  as  her  young  example  taught : 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within,  for  light  ? 

We  grew  in  age  —  and  love  —  together  — 
Roaming  the  forest  and  the  wild  ; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather  — 
And  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smil'd, 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 
/saw  no  Heaven  —  but  in  her  eyes. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is  —  the  heart : 
For  'mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 

When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 
And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 


233 


234  TAMERLANE. 

I  'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 
And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears  — 

There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest  — 
No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 

Of  her  —  who  ask'd  no  reason  why, 

But  turn'd  on  me  her  quiet  eye  ! 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain-peak,  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone  — 
I  had  no  being  —  but  in  thee  : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth  —  the  air  —  the  sea  — 

Its  joy  —  its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure  —  the  ideal, 

Dim  vanities  of  dreams  by  night  — 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real  — 

(Shadows  —  and  a  more  shadowy  light !) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and  —  a  name  —  a  name  ! 
Two  separate  —  yet  most  intimate  things. 

I  was  ambitious  —  have  you  known 

The  passion,  father  ?     You  have  not : 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 


TAMERLANE.  235 

And  murmur'd  at  such  lowly  lot  — 
But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 

Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  thro' 
The  minute  —  the  hour  —  the  day  —  oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness. 

We  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain  which  look'd  down 

Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills  — 
The  dwindled  hills  !  begirt  with  bowers 

And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills, 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically  —  in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 

The  moment's  converse  ;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly, 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own  ; 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me 

Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

1  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then 
And  donn'd  a  visionary  crown  — 


236  TAMERLANE. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me  — - 
But  that,  among  the  rabble  —  men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chain'd  down  — 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand  — 
Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand  — 
The  wild  —  the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

Look  'round  thee  now  on  Samarcand  ! 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth  ?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities  ?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies  ?  in  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone  ? 
Falling  —  her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne  — 
And  who  her  sovereign  ?     Timour —  he 

Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 

A  diadem'd  outlaw  ! 

O,  human  love  !  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven  ! 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-wither'd  plain, 
And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness  ! 


TAMERLANE. 

Idea !  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth  — 
'Farewell !  for  I  have  won  the  Earth. 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  tower'd,  could  see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly  — 

And  homeward  turn'd  his  soften'd  eye. 
'T  was  sunset ;  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist 
So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 
To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 
To  those  whose  spirits  harken)  as  one 
Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would fly 
But  cannot  from  a  danger  nigh. 

What  tho'  the  moon  —  the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly  —  and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one  — 


237 


238  TAMERLANE. 

For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known, 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown  — 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noonday  beauty  —  which  is  all. 

I  reach'd  my  home  —  my  home  no  more 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 

I  pass'd  from  out  its  mossy  door, 

And,  tho'  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 

Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known  — 
O,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 
A  humbler  heart —  a  deeper  woe. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe  — 

I  know  —  for  Death  who  comes  for  me 

From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 
Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 

Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 
And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 
Are  flashing  thro'  Eternity  — 
I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path  — 
Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove, 
I  wandered  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 


239 


From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trellis'd  rays  from  Heaven, 
No  mote  may  shun  —  no  tiniest  fly  — 
The  lightning  of  his  eagle  eye  — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
TiH  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair  ? 


TO  . 

|HE  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 

The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips  —  and  all  thy  melody 

Of  lip-begotten  words. 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined, 

Then  desolately  fall, 
O  God  !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall. 

Thy  heart  —  thy  heart  —  I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy  — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 


240  ROMANCE. 

A   DREAM. 

visions  of  the  dark  night 
I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departed  — 
But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 

Ah !  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 

To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 
On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 

Turned  back  upon  the  past? 

That  holy  dream  —  that  holy  dream, 
While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 

Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam, 
A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 

What  though  that  light,  thro'  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar  — 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day-star  ? 


ROMANCE. 

jOMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 


FAIRY-LAND.  241 

To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been  —  a  most  familiar  bird  — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say  — 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child  —  with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Of  late,  eternal' Condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  Heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 
And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings  — 
That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away  —  forbidden  things  ! 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 


FAIRY-LAND. 

|IM  vales  —  and  shadowy  floods  — 
And.cloudy-looking  woods, 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over : 
Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane  — 
Again  —  again  —  again  — 


242  FAIRY-LAND. 

Every  moment  of  the  night  — 
Forever  changing  places  — 
And  they  put  out  the  star-light 
With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces. 
About  twelve  by  the  moon-dial 
One  more  filmy  than  the  rest 
(A  kind  which,  upon  trial, 
They  have  found  to  be  the  best) 
Comes  down  —  still  down  —  and  down 
With  its  centre  on  the  crown 
Of  a  mountain's  eminence, 
*      While  its  wide  circumference 
In  easy  drapery  falls 
Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 
Wherever  they  may  be  — 
O'er  the  strange  woods  —  o'er  the  sea- 
Over  spirits  on  the  wing  — 
Over  every  drowsy  thing  — 
And  buries  them  up  quite 
In  a  labyrinth. of  light  — 
And  then,  how  deep  !  —  oh,  deep 
Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep. 
In  the  morning  they  arise, 
And  their  moony  covering 
Is  soaring  in  the  skies, 
With  the  tempests  as  they  toss, 
Like  —  almost  anything  — 
Or  a  yellow  Albatross. 


THE   LAKE.  —  TO .  243 

They  use  that  moon  no  more 
For  the  same  end  as  before  — 
Videlicet  a  tent  — 
Which  I  think  extravagant : 
Its  atomies,  however, 
Into  a  shower  dissever, 
Of  which  those  butterflies, 
Of  Earth,  who  seek  the  skies, 
And  so  come  down  again 
(Never-contented  things!) 
Have  brought  a  specimen 
Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


THE   LAKE. —  TO 


|N  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 
To  haunt  of  the  wide  world  a  spot 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less  — 
So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 
Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 
And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around. 
But  when  the  Night  had  thrown  her  pall 
Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 
And  the  mystic  wind  went  by 
Murmuring  in  melody  — 
Then  —  ah,  then  I  would  awake 
To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 


244  SONG. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright, 

But  a  tremulous  delight  — 

A  feeling  not  the  jewelled  mine 

Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define  — 

Nor  Love  —  although  the  Love  were  thine. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining  — 

Whose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 


SONG. 

SAW  thee  on  the  bridal  day, 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee : 

And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Of  Loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame  — 

As  such  it  well  may  pass  — 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas ! 


TO   M.  L.  S .  245 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  clay, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


TO  M.  L.  S- 


|F  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning  — 
Of  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night  — 
The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 
The  sacred  sun  —  of  all  who,  weeping,  bless  thee 
Hourly  for  hope  —  for  life  —  ah  !  above  all, 
For  the  resurrection  of  deep-buried  faith 
In  Trufh  —  in  Virtue  —  in  Humanity  — 
Of  all  who,  on  Despair's  unhallowed  bed 
Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 
At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "  Let  there  be  light ! " 
At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 
In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes  — 
Of  all  who  owe  thee  most  —  whose  gratitude 
Nearest  resembles  worship  —  oh,  remember 
The  truest  —  the  most  fervently  devoted, 
And  think  that  these  weak  lines  are  written  by  him  - 
By  him  who,  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 
His  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 


SPIRITS    OF   THE   DEAD. 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD. 

|HY  soul  shall  find  itself  alone 

'Mid  dark  thoughts  of  the  gray  tomb-stone— 
Not  one,  of  all  the  crowd,  to  pry 
Into  thine  hour  of  secresy. 

Be  silent  in  that  solitude 

Which  is  not  loneliness— for  then 
The  spirits  of  the  dead  who  stood 

In  life  before  thee  are  again 
In  death  around  thee — and  their  will 
Shall  overshadow  thee :  be  still. 

The  night— tho'  clear— shall  frown— 
And  the  stars  shall  not  look  down 
From  their  high  thrones  in  Heaven, 
With  light  like  Hope  to  mortals  given— 
But  their  red  orbs,  without  beam, 
To  thy  weariness  shall  seem 
As  a  burning  and  a  fever 
Which  would  cling  to  thee  forever. 

Now  are  thoughts  thou  shalt  not  banish- 
Now  are  visions  ne'er  to  vanish— 
From  thy  spirit  shall  they  pass 
No  more— like  dew-drops  from  the  grass. 


TO    HELEN.  247 

The  breeze — the  breath  of  God — is  still — 
And  the  mist  upon  the  hill 
Shadowy — shadowy — yet  unbroken, 
Is  a  symbol  and  a  token — 
How  it  hangs  upon  the  trees, 
A  mystery  of  mysteries  ! 


TO  HELEN. 

ELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo  !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand  ! 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah  !  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land  ! 


248  ALONE. 


ALONE. 

IROM  childhood's  hour  I  have  not  been 
As  others  were — I  have  not  seen 
As  others  saw — I  could  not  bring 

My  passions  from  a  common  spring. 

From  the  same  source  I  have  not  taken 

My  sorrow ;  I  could  not  awaken 

My  heart  to  joy  at  the  same  tone  ; 

And  all  I  lov'd,  /  lov'd  alone. 

Then — in  my  childhood — in  the  dawn 

Of  a  most  stormy  life — was  drawn 

From  ev'ry  depth  of  good  and  ill 

The  mystery  which  binds  me  still  : 

From  the  torrent,  or  the  fountain, 

From  the  red  cliff  of  the  mountain, 

From  the  sun  that  'round  me  roll'd 

In  its  autumn  tint  of  gold' — 

From  the  lightning  in  the  sky 

As  it  pass'd  me  flying  by — 

From  the  thunder  and  the  storm, 

And  the  cloud  that  took  the  form 

(When  the  rest  of  Heaven  was  blue) 

Of  a  demon  in  my  view. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


IN  speaking  of  the  Poetic  Principle,  I  have  no 
to  be  either  thorough  or  profound.  While  discussing, 
very  much  at  random,  the  essentiality  of  what  we  call 
Poetry,  my  principal  purpose  will  be  to  cite  for  consid 
eration  some  few  of  those  minor  English  or  American 
poems  which  best  suit  my  own  taste,  or  which,  upon  my 
own  fancy,  have  left  the  most  definite  impression.  By 
"  minor  poems "  I  mean,  of  course,  poems  of  little 
length.  And  here,  in  the  beginning,  permit  me  to  say 
a  few  words  in  regard  to  a  somewhat  peculiar  principle, 
which,  whether  rightfully  or  wrongfully,  has  always  had 
its  influence  in  my  own  critical  estimate  of  the  poem. 
I  hold  that  a  long  poem  does  not  exist.  I  maintain 
that  the  phrase  "  a  long  poem  "  is  simply  a  flat  contra 
diction  in  terms. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  a  poem  deserves  its  title 
only  inasmuch  as  it  excites  by  elevating  the  soul.  The 
value  of  the  poem  is  in  the  ratio  of  this  elevating  ex 
citement.  But  all  excitements  are,  through  a  psychal 
necessity,  transient.  That  degree  of  excitement  which 
would  entitle  a  poem  to  be  so  called  at  all  cannot  be 


252  THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

sustained  throughout  a  composition-  of  any  great  length. 
After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  at  the  very  utmost,  it 
flags,  fails,  a  revulsion  ensues ;  and  then  the  poem  is,  in 
effect  and  in  fact,  no  longer  such. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found  difficulty 
in  reconciling  the  critical  dictum  that  the  "Paradise 
Lost"  is  to  be  devoutly  admired  throughout  with  the 
absolute  impossibility  of  maintaining  for  it,  during 
perusal,  the  amount  of  enthusiasm  which  that  critical 
dictum  would  demand.  This  great  work,  in  fact,  is  to 
be  regarded  as  poetical  only  when,  losing  sight  of  that 
vital  requisite  in  all  works  of  art,  unity,  we  view  it 
merely  as  a  series  of  minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve  its 
unity,  —  its  totality  of  effect  or  impression,  —  we  read  it 
(as  would  be  necessary)  at  a  single  sitting,  the  result  is 
but  a  constant  alternation  of  excitement  and  depression. 
After  a  passage  of  what  we  feel  to  be  true  poetry,  there 
follows,  inevitably,  a  passage  of  platitude  which  no  crit 
ical  pre-judgment  can  force  us  to  admire  ;  but  if,  upon 
completing  the  work,  we  read  it  again,  omitting  the  first 
book,  —  that  is  to  say,  commencing  with  the  second, — 
we  shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding  that  admirable 
which  we  before  condemned,  that  damnable  which 
we  had  previously  so  much  admired.  It  follows  from 
all  this  that  the  ultimate,  aggregate,  or  absolute  effect 
of  even  the  best  epic  under  the  sun  is  a  nullity :  and 
this  is  precisely  the  fact. 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  253 

In  regard  to  the  Iliad,  we  have,  if  not  positive  proof, 
at  least  very  good  reason,  for  believing  it  intended  as  a 
series  of  lyrics ;  but  granting  the  epic  intention,  I  can 
say  only  that  the  work  is  based  in  an  imperfect  sense  of 
art.  The  modern  epic  is  of  the  suppositious  ancient 
model,  but  an  inconsiderate  and  blindfold  imitation. 
But  the  day  of  these  artistic  anomalies  is  over.  If,  at 
any  time,  any  very  long  poem  were  popular  in  reality,  — 
which  I  doubt,  —  it  is  at  least  clear  that  no  very  long 
poem  will  ever  be  popular  again. 

That  the  extent  of  a  poetical  work  is,  ceteris  paribus, 
the  measure  of  its  merit,  seems  undoubtedly,  when  we 
thus  state  it,  a  proposition  sufficiently  absurd  ;  yet  we 
are  indebted  for  it  to  the  Quarterly  Reviews.  Surely 
there  can  be  nothing  in  mere  size,  abstractly  considered, 
there  can  be  nothing  in  mere  bulk,  so  far  as  a  volume 
is  concerned,  which  has  so  continuously  elicited  admira 
tion  from  these  saturnine  pamphlets  !  A  mountain,  to 
be  sure,  by  the  mere  sentiment  of  physical  magnitude 
which  it  conveys,  does  impress  us  with  a  sense  of  the 
sublime ;  but  no  man  is  impressed  after  this  fashion 
by  the  material  grandeur  of  even  "  The  Columbiad." 
Even  the  Quarterlies  have  not  instructed  us  to  be  so 
impressed  by  it.  As  yet,  they  have  not  insisted  on  our 
estimating  Lamartine  by  the  cubic  foot,  or  Pollock  by 
the  pound ;  but  what  else  are  we  to  infer  from  their 
continual  prating  about  "sustained  effort"?  If  by 


254  THE    POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

"  sustained  effort "  any  little  gentleman  has  accom 
plished  an  epic,  let  us  frankly  commend  him  for  the 
effort,  —  if  this  indeed  be  a  thing  commendable,  —  but 
let  us  forbear  praising  the  epic  on  the  effort's  account. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  common-sense,  in  the  time  to 
come,  will  prefer  deciding  upon  a  work  of  art  rather 
by  the  impression  it  makes,  by  the  effect  it  produces, 
than  by  the  time  it  took  to  impress  the  effect,  or  by 
the  amount  of  "sustained  effort"  which  had  been  found 
necessary  in  effecting  the  impression.  The  fact  is,  that 
perseverance  is  one  thing  and  genius  quite  another, 
nor  can  all  the  Quarterlies  in  Christendom  confound 
them  By  and  by  this  proposition,  with  many  which  I 
have  been  just  urging,  will  be  received  as  self-evident. 
In  the  mean  time,  by  being  generally  condemned  as 
falsities,  they  will  not  be  essentially  damaged  as  truths. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  a  poem  may  be 
improperly  brief.  Undue  brevity  degenerates  into  mere 
epigrammatism.  A  very  short  poem,  while  now  and 
then  producing  a  brilliant  or  vivid,  never  produces  a 
profound  or  enduring  effect.  There  must  be  the  steady 
pressing  down  of  the  stamp  upon  the  wax.  De  Beranger 
has  wrought  innumerable  things,  pungent  and  spirit- 
stirring  ;  but,  in  general,  they  have  been  too  imponder- 
ous  to  stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the  public  attention ; 
and  thus,  as  so  many  feathers  of  fancy,  have  been  blown 
aloft  only  to  be  whistled  down  the  wind. 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  255 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  effect  of  undue  brevity 
in  depressing  a  poem,  —  in  keeping  it  out  of  the  popular 
view,  is  afforded  by  the  following  exquisite  little  sere 
nade  :  — 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how?  — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  ; 
The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts'  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

Oh,  beloved,  as  thou  art ! 

Oh,  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 


2  5^  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

Very  few,  perhaps,  are  familiar  with  these  lines,  yet 
no  less  a  poet  than  Shelley  is  their  author.  Their 
warm  yet  delicate  and  ethereal  imagination  will  be 
appreciated  by  all;  but  by  none  so  thoroughly  as  by 
him  who  has  himself  arisen  from  sweet  dreams  of  one 
beloved  to  bathe  in  the  aromatic  air  of  a  southern  mid 
summer  night. 

One  of  the  finest  poems  by  Willis  —  the  very  best,  in 
my  opinion,  which  he  has  ever  written  —  has,  no  doubt 
through  this  same  defect  of  undue  brevity,  been  kept 
back  from  its  proper  position,  not  less  in  the  critical 
than  in  the  popular  view. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

JT  was  near  the  twilight  tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walked  she,  but  viewlessly 

Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 
And  Honor  charmed  the  air, 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  257 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair ; 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  : 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  !  — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 

By  man  is  cursed  alvvay ! 

In  this  composition  we  find  it  difficult  to  recognize 
the  Willis  who  has  written  so  many  mere  "verses  of 
society."  The  lines  are  not  only  richly  ideal,  but  full 


258 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


of  energy,  while  they  breathe  an  earnestness,  an  evident 
sincerity  of  sentiment,  for  which  we  look  in  vain  through 
out  all  the  other  works  of  this  author. 

While  the  epic  mania  —  while  the  idea  that  to  merit, 
in  poetry,  prolixity  is  indispensable  —  has,  for  some 
years  past,  been  gradually  dying  out  of  the  public  mind 
by  mere  dint  of  its  own  absurdity,  we  find  it  succeeded 
by  a  heresy  too  palpably  false  to  be  long  tolerated,  but 
one  which,  in  the  brief  period  it  has  already  endured, 
may  be  said  to  have  accomplished  more  in  the  corruption 
of  our  poetical  literature  than  all  its  other  enemies 
combined.  I  allude  to  the  heresy  of  The  Didactic.  It 
has  been  assumed,  tacitly  and  avowedly,  directly  and 
indirectly,  that  the  ultimate  object  of  all  poetry  is  truth. 
Every  poem,  it  is  said,  should  inculcate  a  moral ;  and 
by  this  moral  is  the  poetical  merit  of  the  work  to  be 
adjudged.  We  Americans  especially  have  patronized 
this  happy  idea ;  and  we  Bostonians,  very  especially, 
have  developed  it  in  full.  We  have  taken  it  into  our 
heads  that  to  write  a  poem  simply  for  the  poem's  sake, 
and  to  acknowledge  such  to  have  been  our  design, 
would  be  to  confess  ourselves  radically  wanting  in  the 
true  poetic  dignity  and  force ;  but  the  simple  fact  is 
that,  would  we  but  permit  ourselves  to  look  into  our  own 
souls,  we  should  immediately  there  discover  that  under 
the  sun  there  neither  exists  nor  can  exist  any  work  more 
thoroughly  dignified,  more  supremely  noble,  than  this 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  259 

very  poem  ;  this  poem  per  se ;  this  poem  which  is  a 
poem  and  nothing  more ;  this  poem  written  solely  for 
the  poem's  sake. 

With  as  deep  a  reverence  for  the  True  as  ever  in 
spired  the  bosom  of  man,  I  would  nevertheless  limit, 
in  some  measure,  its  modes  of  inculcation.  I  would 
limit,  to  enforce  them.  I  would  not  enfeeble  them  by 
dissipation.  The  demands  of  Truth  are  severe.  She 
has  no  sympathy  with  the  myrtles.  All  that  which  is  so 
indispensable  in  Song  is  precisely  all  that  with  which 
she  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  It  is  but  making  her 
a  flaunting  paradox  to  wreathe  her  in  gems  and  flowers. 
In  enforcing  a  truth,  we  need  severity  rather  than  efflo 
rescence  of  language.  We  must  be  simple,  precise,  terse ; 
we  must  be  cool,  calm,  unimpassioned ;  in  a  word,  we 
must  be  in  that  mood  which,  as  nearly  as  possible,  is. the 
exact  converse  of  the  poetical.  He  must  be  blind  indeed 
who  does  not  perceive  the  radical  and  chasmal  differ 
ences  between  the  truthful  and  the  poetical  modes  of 
inculcation.  He  must  be  theory-mad  beyond  redemp 
tion  who,  in  spite  of  these  differences,  shall  still  persist 
in  attempting  to  reconcile 'the  obstinate  oils  and  waters 
of  Poetry  and  Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three  most  imme 
diately  obvious  distinctions,  we  have  the  Pure  Intellect, 
Taste,  and  the  Moral  Sense.  I  place  Taste  in  the  mid 
dle  because  it  is  just  this  position  which,  in  the  mind, 


260  THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

it  occupies.  It  holds  intimate  relations  with  either 
extreme,  but  from  the  Moral  Sense  is  separated  by  so 
faint  a  difference  that  Aristotle  has  not  hesitated  to 
place  some  of  its  operations  among  the  virtues  them 
selves.  Nevertheless,  we  find  the  offices  of  the  trio 
marked  with  a  sufficient  distinction.  Just  as  the  Intel 
lect  concerns  .itself  with  Truth,  so  Taste  informs  us  of 
the  Beautiful,  while  the  Moral  Sense  is  regardful  of  Duty. 
Of  this  latter,  while  Conscience  teaches  the  obligation, 
and  Reason  the  expediency,  Taste  contents  herself  with 
displaying  the  charms ;  waging  war  upon  Vice  solely 
on  the  ground  of  her  deformity,  her  disproportion,  her 
animosity  to  the  fitting,  to  the  appropriate,  to  the  har 
monious —  in  a  word,  to  Beauty. 

An  immortal  instinct,  deep  within  the  spirit  of  man, 
is^jjgS?  plainly,  a  sense  of  the  Beautiful.  This  it  is 
which  administers  to  his  delight  in  the  manifold  forms 
and  sounds  and  odors  and  sentiments  amid  which  he 
exists.  And  just  as  the  lily  is  repeated  in  the  lake,  or 
the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the  mirror,  so  is  the  mere  oral 
or  written  repetition  of  these  forms  and  sounds  and 
colors  and  odors  and  sentiments  a  duplicate  source  of 
delight.  But  this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry.  He 
who  shall  simply  sing,  with  however  glowing  enthusi 
asm  or  with  however  vivid  a  truth  of  description,  of  the 
sights  and  sounds  and  odors  and  colors  and  senti 
ments  which  greet  him  in  common  with  all  mankind, — 


THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  261 

he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine  title.  Theix 
is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has  been 
unable  to  attain.  We  have  still  a  thirst  unquenchable, 
to  allay  which  he  has  not  shown  us  the  crystal  springs. 
This  thirst  belongs  to  the  immortality  of  man.  It  is  at 
once  a  consequence  and  an  indication  of  his  perennial 
existence.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star.  It 
is  no  mere  appreciation  of  the  beauty  before  us,  but 
a  wild  effort  to  reach  the  beauty  above.  Inspired  by  an 
ecstatic  prescience  of  the  glories  beyond  the  grave,  we 
struggle,  by  multiform  combinations  among  the  things 
and  thoughts  of  time,  to  attain  a  portion  of  that  love 
liness  whose  very  elements,  perhaps,  appertain  to  eternity 
alone.  And  thus  when  by  poetry  —  or  when  by  music, 
the  most  entrancing  of  the  poetic  moods — we  find 
ourselves  melted  into  tears,  we  weep  then,  not,  as  the 
Abbate  Gravina  supposes,  through  excess  of  pleasure, 
but  through  a  certain  petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our 
inability  to  grasp  now,  wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once 
and  forever,  those  divine  and  rapturous  joys,  of  which 
through  the  poem  or  through  the  music,  we  attain  to  but 
brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 

The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal  loveliness, 
this  struggle,  on  the  part  of  souls  fittingly  constituted, 
has  given  to  the  world  all  that  which  it  (the  world)  has 
ever  been  enabled  at  once  to  understand  and  to  feel  as 
poetic. 


262  THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

The  poetic  sentiment,  of  course,  may  develop  itself 
in  various  modes,  —  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  in  archi 
tecture,  in  the  dance,  very  especially  in  music,  and 
very  peculiarly,  and  with  a  wide  field,  in  the  composition 
of  the  landscape  garden.  Our  present  theme,  how 
ever,  has  regard  only  to  its  manifestation  in  words. 
And  here  let  me  speak  briefly  on  the  topic  of  rhythm. 
Contenting  myself  with  .the  certainty  that  music,  in  its 
various  modes  of  metre,  rhythm,  and  rhyme,  is  of  so 
vast  a  moment  in  poetry  as  never  to  be  wisely  rejected, 
is  so  vitally  important  an  adjunct  that  he  is  simply  silly 
who  declines  its  assistance,  I  will  not  now  pause  to 
maintain  its  absolute  essentiality.  It  is  in  music,  per 
haps,  that  the  soul  most  nearly  attains  the  great  end  for 
which,  when  inspired  by  the  poetic  sentiment,  it  struggles, 
—  the  creation  of  supernal  beauty.  It  may  be,  indeed, 
that  here  this  sublime  end  is,  now  and  then,  attained,  in 
fact.  We  are  often  made  to  feel,  with  a  shivering  delight, 
that  from  an  earthly  harp  are  stricken  notes  which  cannot 
have  been  unfamiliar  to  the  angels.  And  thus  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  in  the  union  of  poetry  with  music 
in  its  popular  sense,  we  shall  find  the  widest  field  for  the 
poetic  development.  The  old  bards  and  minnesingers 
had  advantages  which  we  do  not  possess  ;  and  Thomas 
Moore,  singing  his  own  songs,  was,  in  the  most  legitimate 
manner,  perfecting  them  as  poems. 

To  recapitulate,  then:  —  I  would  define,  in  brief,  the 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  23 

poetry  of  words  as  the  rhythmical  creation  of  beauty. 
Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste.  With  the  intellect  or  with  the 
conscience,  it  has  only  collateral  relations.  Unless  in 
cidentally,  it  has  no  concern  whatever  either  with  Duty 
or  with  Truth. 

A  few  words,  however,  in  explanation.  That  pleasure 
which  is  at  once  the  most  pure,  the  most  elevating,  and 
the  most  intense,  is  derived,  I  maintain,  from  the  con 
templation  of  the  Beautiful.  In  the  contemplation  of 
Beauty,  we  alone  find  it  possible  to  attain  this  pleasur 
able  elevation  or  excitement  of  the  soul  which  we  recog 
nize  as  the  poetic  sentiment,  and  which  is  so  easily  dis 
tinguished  from  Truth,  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the 
Reason,  or  from  Passion,  which  is  the  excitement  of  the 
heart.  I  make  Beauty,  therefore,  using  the  word  as 
inclusive  of  the  sublime,  —  I  make  Beauty  the  province 
of  the  poem,  simply  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  art 
that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  as  directly  as  pos 
sible  from  their  causes,  —  no  one  as  yet  having  been 
weak  enough  to  deny  that  the  peculiar  elevation  in  ques- 
is  at  least  most  readily  attainable  in  the  poem.  It  by  no 
means  follows,  however,  that  the  incitements  of  Passion 
or  the  precepts  of  Duty,  or  even  the  lessons  of  Truth, 
may  not  be  introduced  into  a  poem,  and  with  advantage  ; 
for  they  may  subserve,  incidentally,  in  various  ways,  the 
general  purposes  of  the  work  :  but  the  true  artist  will 
always  contrive  to  tone  them  down  in  proper  subjection 


264 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


to  that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmosphere  and  the  rea 
essence  of  the  poem. 

I  cannot  better  introduce  the  few  poems  which  I  shall 
present  for  your  consideration  than  by  the  citation  of 
the  proem  to  Mr.  Longfellow's  "Waif." 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist,  — 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time ; 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  265 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
LifVs  endless  toil  and  endeavor  ; 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 


266 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


With  no  great  range  of  imagination,  these  lines  have 
been  justly  admired  for  their  delicacy  of  expression. 
Some  of  the  images  are  very  effective.  Nothing  can  be 
better  than 


The  bards  sublime, 


Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Down  the  corridors  of  Time. 

The  idea  of  the  last  quartrain  is  also  very  effective. 
The  poem,  on  the  whole,  however,  is  chiefly  to  be 
admired  for  the  graceful  insouciance  of  its  metre,  so  well 
in  accordance  with  the  character  of  the  sentiments,  and 
especially  for  the  case  cf  the  general  manner.  This 
"  ease,"  or  naturalness,  in  a  literary  style,  it  has  long 
been  the  fashion  to  regard  as  ease  in  appearance  alone, 
—  as  a  point  of  really  difficult  attainment.  Bat  not 
so :  a  natural  manner  is  difficult  only  to  him  who 
should  never  meddle  with  it,  —  to  the  unnatural.  It  is 
but  the  result  of  writing  with  the  understanding,  or  with 
the  instinct,  that  the  tone,  in  composition,  should  always 
be  that  which  the  mass  of  mankind  would  adopt,  and 
must  perpetually  vary,  of  course,  with  the  occasion. 
The  author  who,  after  the  fashion  of  "  The  North 
American  Review,"  should  be,  upon  all  occasions, 
merely  "  quiet,"  must  necessarily,  upon  many  occasions, 
be  simply  silly  or  stupid  ;  and  has  no  more  right  to  be 
considered  "easy"  or  "natural,"  than  a  cockney  ex 
quisite,  or  than  the  sleeping  Beauty  in  the  wax-works. 


THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  267 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Bryant,  none  has  so  much 
impressed  me  as  the  one  which  he  entitles  "  June."  I 
quote  only  a  portion  of  it :  — 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick,  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothe'd  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow  ; 


268  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

But  if  around  my  place  of  sleep, 

The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is  —  that  his  grave  is  green  ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 

The  rhythmical  flow  here  is  even  voluptuous  —  noth 
ing  could  be  more  melodious.  The  poem  has  always 
affected  me  in  a  remarkable  manner.  The  intense 
melancholy  which  seems  to  well  up,  perforce,  to  the 
surface  of  all  the  poet's  cheerful  sayings  about  his 
grave,  we  find  thrilling  us  to  the  soul,  while  there  is 
the  truest  poetic  elevation  in  the  thrill.  The  impression 
left  is  one  of  a  pleasurable  sadness.  And  if,  in  the 
remaining  compositions  which  I  shall  introduce  to  you, 
there  be  more  or  less  of  a  similar  tone  always  apparent, 
let  me  remind  you  that  (how  or  why  we  know  not)  this 
certain  taint  of  sadness  is  inseparably  connected  with 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  269 

all   the   higher   manifestations   of  true  beauty.     It  is, 
nevertheless, 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain 

The  taint  of  which  I  speak  is  clearly  perceptible 
even  in  a  poem  so  full  of  brilliancy  and  spirit  as 
the  "  Health  "  of  Edward  Coate  Pinkney :  — 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair  that,  like  the  air 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words  ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 


2/0  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill'd  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman, 'of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon. 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  271 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinckney  to  have  been 
born  too  far  south.  Had  he  been  a  New  Englander,  it 
is  probable  that  he  would  have  been  ranked  as  the 
first  of  American  lyrists  by  that  magnanimous  cabal 
which  has  so  long  controlled  the  destinies  of  American 
Letters  in  conducting  the  thing  called  "The  North 
American  Review."  The  poem  just  cited  is  especially 
beautiful ;  but  the  poetic  elevation  which  it  induces,  we 
must  refer  chiefly  to  our  sympathy  in  the  poet's  en 
thusiasm.  We  pardon  his  hyperboles  for  the  evident 
earnestness  with  which  they  are  uttered. 

It  was  by  no  means  my  design,  however,  to  expatiate 
upon  the  merits  of  what  I  should  read  you.  These  will 
necessarily  speak  for  themselves.  Boccalini,  in  his 
"  Advertisements  from  Parnassus,"  tells  us  that  Zoilus 
once  presented  Apollo  a  very  caustic  criticism  upon  a 
very  admirable  book,  whereupon  the  god  asked  him 
for  the  beauties  of  the  work.  He  replied  that  he  only 
busied  himself  about  the  errors.  On  hearing  this, 
Apollo,  handing  him  a  sack  of  unwinnowed  wheat,  bade 
him  pick  out  all  the  cJiaff  for  his  reward. 

Now  this  fable  answers  very  well  as  a  hit  at  the 
critics ;  but  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  the  god  was 
in  the  right.  I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  the 
true  limits  of  the  critical  duty  are  not  grossly  misunder 
stood.  Excellence,  in  a  poem  especially,  may  be  con 
sidered  in  the  light  of  an  axiom,  which  need  only  be 


272  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

properly  put  to  become  self-evident.  It  is  not  excellence 
if  it  require  to  be  demonstrated  as  such :  and  thus,  to 
point  out  too  particularly  the  merits  of  a  work  of  art  is 
to  admit  that  they  are  not  merits  altogether. 

Among  the  "Melodies"  of  Thomas  Moore,  is  one 
whose  distinguished  character  as  a  poem  proper,  seems 
to  have  been  singularly  left  out  of  view.  I  allude  to 
his  lines  beginning  "  Come,  rest  in  this  bosom."  The 
intense  energy  of  their  expression  is  not  surpassed 
by  anything  in  Byron.  There  are  two  of  the  lines  in 
which  a  sentiment  is  conveyed  that  embodies  the  all  in 
all  of  the  divine  passion  of  love,  —  a  sentiment  which, 
perhaps,  has  found  its  echo  in  more,  and  in  more  pas 
sionate  human  hearts,  than  any  other  single  sentiment 
ever  embodied  in  words  :  — 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still 

here ; 

Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and 

shame  ? 

I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt 's  in  that  heart : 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 


THE    POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  273 

Thou  hast  calPd  me  thy  angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
And  thy  angel  I  '11  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, —  or  perish  there  too  ! 

It  has  been  the  fashion  of  late  days  to  deny  Moore 
imagination,  while  granting  him  fancy,  —  a  distinction 
originating  with  Coleridge,  than  whom  no  man  more 
fully  comprehended  the  great  powers  of  Moore.  The 
fact  is  that  the  fancy  of  this  poet  so  far  predominates 
over  all  his  other  faculties,  and  over  the  fancy  of  all 
other  men,  as  to  have  induced,  very  naturally,  the  idea 
that  he  is  fanciful  only.  But  never  was  there  a  greater 
mistake,  never  was  a  grosser  wrong  done  the  fame  of 
a  true  poet.  In  the  compass  of  the  English  language 
I  can  call  to  mind  no  poem  more  profoundly,  more 
weirdly  imaginative,  in  the  best  sense,  than  the  lines 
commencing  "  I  would  I  were  by  that  dim  lake,"  which 
are  the  composition  of  Thomas  Moore.  I  regret  that  I 
am  unable  to  remember  them. 

One  of  the  noblest  —  and,  speaking  of  fancy,  one 
of  the  most  singularly  fanciful  of  modern  poets  —  was 
Thomas  Hood.  His  "  Fair  Ines  "  had  always,  for  me, 
an  inexpressible  charm  :  — 

Oh,  saw  ye  not  Fair  Ines  ? 

She 's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest. 


2/4  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Oh,  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 
For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright : 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 
Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near  ! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  a  band  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before  ; 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  275 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

—  If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines  ! 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 
But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you  've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before. 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 

"  The  Haunted  House,"  by  the  same  author,  is  one 
of  the  truest  poems  ever  written,  one  of  the  truest, 
one  of  the  most  unexceptionable,  one  of  the  most 
thoroughly  artistic,  both  in  its  theme  and  in  its  execu- 


276  THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

tion.  It  is,  moreover,  powerfully  ideal,  imaginative. 
I  regret  that  its  length  renders  it  unsuitable  for  the 
purposes  of  this  Lecture.  In  place  of  it,  permit  me  to 
offer  the  universally  appreciated  "  Bridge  of  Sighs"  :  — 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death. 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care,  — 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing. 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing.  — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully, 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now,  is  pure  womanly. 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family, 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily ; 
Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses, 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  1 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Oh,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed ; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world ! 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  279 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — • 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care,  — 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  —  kindly,  — 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 


280  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Cold  inhumanity. 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

The  vigor  of  this  poem  is  no  less  remarkable  than  its 
pathos.  The  versification,  although  carrying  the  fanci 
ful  to  the  very  verge  of  the  fantastic,  is  nevertheless 
admirably  adapted  to  the  wild  insanity  which  is  the 
thesis  of  the  poem. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Lord  Byron  is  one  which 
has  never  received  from  the  critics  the  praise  which  it 
undoubtedly  deserves:  — 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny  's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find  ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  281 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine  ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain  —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn  ; 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me : 

T  is  of  thee  that  I  think  —  not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake  ; 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 


282  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  : 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

}T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  ; 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  tfiee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  which  I  most  cherished, 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

Although  the  rhythm,  here,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult, 
the  versification  could  scarcely  be  improved.  No  nobler 
theme  ever  engaged  the  pen  of  poet.  It  is  the  soul-ele 
vating  idea  that  no  man  can  consider  himself  entitled 
to  complain  of  fate,  while  in  his  adversity  he  still  retains 
the  unwavering  love  of  woman. 

From  Alfred  Tennyson  —  although  in  perfect  sincerity 
I  regard  him  as  the  noblest  poet  that  ever  lived  —  I 
have  left  myself  time  to  cite  only  a  very  brief  specimen. 
I  call  him  and  think  him  the  noblest  of  poets,  —  not 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  283 

because  the  impressions  he  produces  are,  at  all  times, 
the  most  profound  ;  not  because  the  poetical  excitement 
which  he  induces  is,  at  all  times,  the  most  intense  ;  but 
because  it  is,  at  all  times,  the  most  ethereal,  in  other 
words,  the  most  elevating  and  the  most  pure.  No  poet 
is  so  little  of  the  earth,  earthy.  What  I  am  about  to 
read  is  from  his  last  long  poem,  "The  Princess":  — 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  ! 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge,  — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah !  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square,  — 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 


284  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret. 
O  Death  in  Life !  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Thus,  although  in  a  very  cursory  and  imperfect  man 
ner,  I  have  endeavored  to  convey  to  you  my  conception 
of  the  Poetic  Principle,  It  has  been  my  purpose  to 
suggest  that,  while  this  principle  itself  is,  strictly  and 
simply,  the  human  aspiration  for  supernal  beauty,  the 
manifestation  of  the  principle  is  always  found  in  an 
elevating  excitement  of  the  soul,  quite  independent  of  that 
passion  which  is  the  intoxication  of  the  heart,  or  of 
that  truth  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  reason;  for, 
in  regard  to  passion,  alas !  its  tendency  is  to  degrade 
rather  than  to  elevate  the  soul.  Love,  on  the  contrary, 
—  Love,  the  true,  the  divine  Eros,  the  Uranian  as  dis 
tinguished  from  the  Dionaean  Venus,  —  is  unquestionably 
the  purest  and  truest  of  all  poetical  themes.  And  in 
regard  to  Truth,  if,  to  be  sure,  through  the  attainment 
of  a  truth  we  are  led  to  perceive  a  harmony  where  none 
was  apparent  before,  we  experience  at  once  the  true 
poetical  effect ;  but  this  effect  is  referrible  to  the  har 
mony  alone,  and  not  in  the  least  degree  to  the  truth 
which  merely  served  to  render  the  harmony  manifest. 

We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately  a  distinct 
conception  of  what  the  true  poetry  is  by  mere  refer 
ence  to  a  few  of  the  simple  elements  which  induce  in 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  285 

the  poet  himself  the  true  poetical  effect.  He  recog 
nizes  the  ambrosia  which  nourishes  his  soul,  in  the 
bright  orbs  that  shine  in  Heaven,  in  the  volutes  of 
the  flower,  in  the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies,  in  the 
waving  of  the  grain-fields,  in  the  slanting  of  tall, 
eastern  trees,  in  the  blue  distance  of  mountains,  in  the 
grouping  of  clouds,  in  the  twinkling  of  half-hidden 
brooks,  in  the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers,  in  the  re 
pose  of  sequestered  lakes,  in  the  star-mirroring  depths 
of  lonely  wells.  Pie  perceives  it  in  the  songs  of  birds, 
in  the  harp  of  ^Eolus,  in  the  sighing  of  the  night- 
wind,  in  the  repining  voice  of  the  forest,  in  the 
surf  that  complains  to  the  shore,  in  the  fresh  breath 
of  the  woods,  in  the  scent  of  the  violet,  in  the  voluptu 
ous  perfume  of  the  hyacinth,  in  the  suggestive  odor 
that  comes  to  him,  at  eventide,  from  far-distant,  undis 
covered  islands,  over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unex 
plored.  He  owns  it  in  all  noble  thoughts,  in  all 
unworldly  motives,  in  all  holy  impulses,  in  all  chiv 
alrous,  generous,  and  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels 
it  in  the  beauty  of  woman,  —  in  the  grace  of  her  step, 
in  the  lustre  of  her  eye,  in  the  melody  of  her  voice, 
in  her  soft  laughter,  in  her  sigh,  in  the  harmony  of 
the  rustling  of  her  robes.  He  deeply  feels  it  in  her 
winning  endearments,  in  her  burning  enthusiasms,  in 
her  gentle  charities,  in  her  meek  and  devotional  en 
durances;  but  above  all,  ah!  far  above  all,  he  kneels 


286  THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

to  it,  he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the  purity,  in  the 
strength,  in  the  altogether  divine  majesty  of  her  love. 

Let  me  conclude  by  the  recitation  of  yet  another 
brief  poem,  one  very  different  in  character  from  any 
that  I  have  before  quoted.  It  is  by  Motherwell,  and  is 
called  "The  Song  of  the  Cavalier."  With  our  modern 
and  altogether  rational  ideas  of  the  absurdity  and  im 
piety  of  warfare,  we  are  not  precisely  in  that  frame  of 
mind  best  adapted  to  sympathize  with  the  sentiments, 
and  thus  to  appreciate  the  real  excellence  of  the  poem. 
To  do  this  fully,  we  must  identify  ourselves,  in  fancy, 
with  the  soul  of  the  old  cavalier. 

Then  mounte,  then  mounte,  brave  gallants  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine  ! 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt 's  in  our  hand  ; 
Heart-whole  we  '11  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land. 
Let  piping  swaine  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye  : 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION. 


1HARLES  DICKENS,  in  a  note  now  lying  before 
me,  alluding  to  an  examination  I  once  made 
of  the  mechanism  of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  says  : 
"By  the  way,  are  you  aware  that  Godwin  wrote  his 
'  Caleb  Williams  '  backward  ?  He  first  involved  his  hero 
in  a  web  of  difficulties,  forming  the  second  volume,  and 
then,  for  the  first,  cast  about  him  for  some  mode  of  ac 
counting  for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of  procedure  on  the 
part  of  Godwin — and  indeed  what  he -himself  acknowl 
edges  is  not  altogether  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Dickens's 
idea — but  the  author  of  "Caleb  Williams"  was  too  good 
an  artist  not  to  perceive  the  advantage  derivable  from  at 
least  a  somewhat  similar  process.  Nothing  is  more  clear 
than  that  every  plot,  worth  the  name,  must  be  elaborated 
to  its  denouement  before  anything  be  attempted  with  the 
pen.  It  is  only  with  the  denouement  constantly  in  view 
that  we  can  give  a  plot  its  indispensable  air  of  conse 
quence,  or  causation,  by  making  the  incidents,  and  espe- 


288  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

dally  the  tone,  at  all  points,  tend  to  the  development  of 
the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the  usual  mode  of 
constructing  a  story.  Either  history  affords  a  thesis,  or 
one  is  suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  day — or,  at  best, 
the  author  sets  himself  to  work  in  the  combination  of 
striking  events  to  form  merely  the  basis  of  his  narrative — 
designing,  'generally,  to  fill  in,  with  description,  dialogue, 
or  autorial  comment,  whatever  crevices  of  fact,  or  action, 
may,  from  page  to  page,  render  themselves  apparent. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an  effect. 
Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is  false  to 
himself  who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so  obvious  and  so 
easily  attainable  a  source  of  interest — I  say  to  myself,  in 
the  first  place,  "Of  the  innumerable  effects,  or  impres 
sions,  of  which  the  heart,  the  intellect,  or  (more  gener 
ally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what  one  shall  I,  on  the 
present  occasion,  select  ?  "  Having  chosen  a  novel,  first, 
and  secondly  a  vivid  effect,  I  consider  whether  it  can  be 
best  wrought  by  incident  or  tone — whether  by  ordinary 
incidents  and  peculiar  tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  pecu 
liarity  both  of  incident  and  tone  ;  afterward  looking  about 
me  (or  rather  within)  for  such  combinations  of  event  or 
tone  as  shall  best  aid  me  in  the  construction  of  the  effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a  magazine  paper 
might  be  written  by  any  author  who  would — that  is  tc 
say,  who  could — detail,  step  by  step,  the  processes  by 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  289 

which  any  one  of  his  compositions  attained  its  ultimate 
point  of  completion.  Why  such  a  paper  has  never  been 
given  to  the  world  I  am  much  at  a  loss  to  say  ;  but,  per 
haps,  the  autorial  vanity  .has  had  more  to  do  with  the 
omission  than  any  one  other  cause.  Most  writers — poets 
in  especial — prefer  having  it  understood  that  they  com 
pose  by  a  species  of  fine  frenzy — an  ecstatic  intuition — 
and  would  positively  shudder  at  letting  the  public  take  a 
peep,  behind  the  scenes,  at  the  elaborate  and  vacillating 
crudities  of  thought — at  the  true  purposes  seized  only  at 
the  last  moment — at  the  innumerable  glimpses  of  idea 
that  arrived  not  at  the  maturity  of  full  view — at  the  fully 
matured  fancies  discarded  in  despair  as  unmanageable — 
at  the  cautious  selections  and  rejections — at  the  painful 
erasures  and  interpolations — in  a  word,  at  the  wheels  and 
pinions — the  tackle  for  scene-shifting — the  step-ladders 
and  demon-traps— the  cock's  feathers,  the  red  paint,  and 
the  black  patches,  which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the 
hundred,  constitute  the  properties  of  the  literary  histrio. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  case  is  by  no 
means  common,  in  which  an  author  is  at  all  in  condition 
to  retrace  the  steps  by  which  his  conclusions  have  been 
attained.  In  general,  suggestions,  having  arisen  pell- 
mell,  are  pursued  and  forgotten  in  a  similar  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  sympathy  with  the 
repugnance  alluded  to,  nor,  at  any  time,  the  least  diffi 
culty  in  recalling  to  mind  the  progressive  steps  of  any  of 
13 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

my  compositions ;  and  since  the  interest  of  an  analysis, 
or  reconstruction,  such  as  I  have  considered  a  desideratum, 
is  quite  Independent  of  any  real  or  fancied  interest  in 
the  thing  analyzed,  it  will  not  be  regarded  as  a  breach  of 
decorum  on  my  part  to  show  the  modus  operandi  by  which 
some  one  of  my  own  works  was  put  together.  I  select 
"The  Raven"  as  most  generally  known.  It  is  my  de 
sign  to  render  it  manifest  that  no  one  point  in  its  com 
position  is  referable  either  to  accident  or  intuition — that 
the  work  proceeded,  step  by  step,  to  its  completion  with 
the  precision  and  rigid  consequence  of  a  mathematical 
problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  per  se,  the 
circumstance — or  say  the  necessity — which,  in  the  first 
place,  gave  rise  to  the  intention  of  composing  a  poem 
that  should  suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the  critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of  extent  If  any 
literary  work  is  too  long  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  we 
must  be  content  to  dispense  with  the  immensely  impor 
tant  effect  derivable  from  unity  of  impression — for,  if  two 
sittings  be  required,  the  affairs  of  the  world  interfere,  and 
everything  like  totality  is  at  once  destroyed.  But  since, 
seteris  paribus,  no  poet  can  afford  to  dispense  with  any 
thing  that  may  advance  his  design,  it  but  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  there  is,  in  extent,  any  advantage  to  coun 
terbalance  the  loss  of  unity  which  attends  it.  Here  I  say 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  29! 

no,  at  once.  What  we  term  a  long  poem  is,  in  fact, 
merely  a  succession  of  brief  ones — that  is  to  say,  of  brief 
poetical  effects.  It  is  needless  to  demonstrate  that  a  poem 
is  such,  only  inasmuch  as  it  intensely  excites,  by  elevating, 
the  soul  ;  and  all  intense  excitements  are,  through  a  psy- 
chal  necessity,  brief.  For  this  reason,  at  least  one-half 
of  the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  essentially  prose — a  succes 
sion  of  poetical  excitements  interspersed,  inevitably,  with 
corresponding  depressions — the  whole  being  deprived, 
through  the  extremeness  of  its  length,  of  the  vastly  im 
portant  artistic  element,  totality,  or  unity,  of  effect. 

It  appears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a  distinct  limit, 
as  regards  length,  to  all  works  of  literary  art — the  limit 
of  a  single  sitting— and  that,  although  in  certain  classes 
of  prose  composition,  such  as  "Robinson  Crusoe"  (de 
manding  no  unity),  this  limit  may  be  advantageously 
overpassed,  it  can  never  properly  be  overpassed  in  a  poem. 
Within  this  limit,  the  extent  of  a  poem  may  be  made  to 
bear  mathematical  relation  to  its  merit — in  other  words, 
to  the  excitement  or  elevation — again,  in  other  words,  to 
the  degree  of  the  true  poetical  effect  which  it  is  capable 
of  inducing  ;  for  it  is  clear  that  the  brevity  must  be  in 
direct  ratio  of  the  intensity  of  the  intended  effect :  this, 
with  one  proviso — that  a  certain  degree  of  duration  is  ab 
solutely  requisite  for  the  production  of  any  effect  at  all. 

Holding  in  view  these  considerations,  as  well  as  that  de 
gree  of  excitement  which  I  deemed  not  above  the  popular, 


2Q2  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

while  not  below  the  critical,  taste,  I  reached  at  once  what 
I  conceived  the  proper  length  for  my  intended  poem — a 
length  of  about  one  hundred  lines.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  hun 
dred  and  eight. 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice  of  an  impres 
sion,  or  effect  to  be  conveyed  :  and  here  I  may  as  well  ob 
serve  that,  throughout  the  construction,  I  kept  steadily  in 
view  the  design  of  rendering  the  work  universally  appre 
ciable.  I  should  be  carried  too  far  out  of  my  immediate 
topic  were  I  to  demonstrate  a  point  upon  which  I  have  re 
peatedly  insisted,  and  which,  with  the  poetical,  stands  not 
in  the  slightest  need  of  demonstration — the  point,  I  mean, 
that  Beauty  is  the  sole  legitimate  province  of  the  poem. 
A  few  words,  however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real  meaning, 
which  some  of  my  friends  have  evinced  a  disposition  to 
misrepresent.  That  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most 
intense,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  pure,  is,  I  be 
lieve,  found  in  the  contemplation  of  the  beautiful.  When, 
indeed,  men  speak  of  Beauty,  they  mean,  precisely,  not 
a  quality,  as  is  supposed,  but  an  effect — they  refer,  in 
short,  just  to  that  intense  and  pure  elevation  of  soul — not 
of  intellect  or  of  heart — upon  which  I  have  commented, 
and  which  is  experienced  in  consequence  of  contemplat 
ing  "  the  beautiful."  Now  I  designate  Beauty  as  the  pro 
vince  of  the  poem,  merely  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule 
of  Art  that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  from  direct 
causes — that  objects  should  be  attained  through  means 


•THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  293 

best  adapted  for  their  attainment — no  one  as  yet  having 
been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the  peculiar  elevation  al 
luded  to  is  most  readily  attained  in  the  poem.  Now  the 
object  Truth,  or  the  satisfaction  of  the  intellect,  and  the 
object  Passion,  or  the  excitement  of  the  heart,  are,  al 
though  attainable,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  poetry,  far  more 
readily  attainable  in  prose.  Truth,  in  fact,  demands  a  pre 
cision,  and  Passion  a  homeliness  (the  truly  passionate  will 
comprehend  me)  which  are  absolutely  antagonistic  to  that 
Beauty  which,  I  maintain,  is  the  excitement  or  pleasur 
able  elevation  of  the  soul.  It  by  no  means  follows  from 
anything  here  said,  that  passion,  or  even  truth,  may  not 
be  introduced,  and  even  profitably  introduced,  into  a 
poem — for  they  may  serve  in  elucidation,  or  aid  the  gen 
eral  effect,  as  do  discords  in  music,  by  contrast — but  the 
true  artist  will  always  contrive,  first,  to  tone  them  into 
proper  subservience  to  the  predominant  aim,  and,  second 
ly,  to  envail  them,  as  far  as  possible,  in  that  Beauty  which 
is  the  atmosphere  and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then,  Beauty  as  my  province,  my  next 
question  referred  to  the  tone  of  its  highest  manifestation — 
and  all  experience  has  shown  that  this  tone  is  one  of  sad 
ness.  Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in  its  supreme  develop 
ment,  invariably  excites  the  sensitive  soul  to  tears.  Melan 
choly  is  thus  the  most  legitimate  of  all  the  poetical  tones. 

The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone  being  thus  de 
termined/  I  betook  myself  to  ordinary  induction,  with  the 


294  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

view  of  obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy  which  might 
serve  me  as  a  key-note  in  the  construction  of  the  poem — 
some  pivot  upon  which  the  whole  structure  might  turn. 
In  carefully  thinking  over  all  the  usual  artistic  effects, 
or  more  properly  points,  in  the  theatrical  sense,  I  did  not 
fail  to  perceive  immediately  that  no  one  had  been  so  uni 
versally  employed  as  that  of  the  refrain.  The  univer 
sality  of  its  employment  sufficed  to  assure  me  of  its 
intrinsic  value,  and  spared  me  the  necessity  of  submitting 
it  to  analysis.  I  considered  it,  however,  with  regard  to  its 
susceptibility  of  improvement,  and  soon  saw  it  to  be  in  a 
primitive  condition.  As  commonly  used,  the  refrain,  or 
burden,  not  only  is  limited  to  lyric  verse,  but  depends  for 
its  impression  upon  the  force  of  monotone,  both  in  sound 
and  thought.  The  pleasure  is  deduced  solely  from  the 
sense  of  identity — of  repetition.  I  resolved  to  diversify, 
and  so  heighten  the  effect,  by  adhering,  in  general,  to  the 
monotone  of  sound,  while  I  continually  varied  that  of 
thought  :  that  is  to  say,  I  determined  to  produce  con 
tinuously  novel  effects  by  the  variation  of  the  application 
of  the  refrain — the  refrain  itself  remaining,  for  the  most 
part,  unvaried. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me  of  the 
nature  of  my  refrain.  Since  its  application  was  to  be 
repeatedly  varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain  itself  must 
be  brief,  for  there  would  have  been  an  insurmountable 
difficulty  in  frequent  variations  of  application  in  any  sen- 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  295 

tence  of  length.  In  proportion  to  the  brevity  of  the  sen 
tence,  would,  of  course,  be  the  facility  of  the  variation. 
This  led  me  at  once  to  a  single  word  as  the  best  refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the  word. 
Having  made  up  my  mind  to  ^refrain,  the  division  of  the 
poem  into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a  corollary:  the  refrain 
forming  the  close  to  each  stanza.  That  such  a  close,  to 
have  force,  must  be  sonorous  and  susceptible  of  pro 
tracted  emphasis,  admitted  no  doubt :  and  these  consid 
erations  inevitably  led  me  to  the  long  o  as  the  most  sonor 
ous  vowel,  in  connection  with  r  as  the  most  producible 
consonant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it  be 
came  necessary  to  select  a  word  embodying  this  sound, 
and  at  the  same  time  in  the  fullest  possible  keeping  with 
that  melancholy  which  I  had  predetermined  as  the  tone 
of  the  poem.  In  such  a  search  it  would  have  been  abso 
lutely  impossible  to  overlook  the  word  "Nevermore." 
In  fact,  it  was  the  very  first  which  presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  continuous 
use  of  the  one  word  "nevermore."  In  observing  the 
difficulty  which  I  at  once  found  in  inventing  a  sufficiently 
plausible  reason  for  its  continuous  repetition,  I  did  not 
fail  to  perceive  that  this  difficulty  arose  solely  from  the 
pre-assumption  that  the  word  was  to  be  so  continuously 
or  monotonously  spoken  by  a  human  being — I  did  not 
fail  to  perceive,  in  short,  that  the  difficulty  lay  in  the 


296  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

reconciliation  of  this  monotony  with  the  exercise  of  rea 
son  on  the  part  of  the  creature  repeating  the  word.  Here, 
then,  immediately  arose  the  idea  of  a  non- reasoning  crea 
ture  capable  of  speech ;  and,  very  naturally,  a  parrot,  in 
the  first  instance,  suggested  itself,  but  was  superseded 
forthwith  by  a  raven,  as  equally  capable  of  speech,  and 
infinitely  more  in  keeping  with  the  intended  tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a  raven — • 
the  bird  of  ill  omen — monotonously  repeating  the  one 
word,  "Nevermore,"  at  the  conclusion  of  each  stanza, 
in  a  poem  of  melancholy  tone,  and  in  length  about  one 
hundred  lines.  Now,  never  losing  sight  of  the  object 
supremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all  points,  I  asked  myself 
—  "Of  all  melancholy  topics,  what,  according  to  the 
universal  understanding  of  mankind,  is  the  most  melan 
choly  ?"  Death — was  the  obvious  reply.  "And  when," 
I  said,  "is  this  most  melancholy  of  topics  most  poeti 
cal  ?  "  From  what  I  have  already  explained  at  some 
length,  the  answer,  here  also,  is  obvious — "When  it 
most  closely  allies  itself  to  Beauty.  The  death,  then,  of  a 
beautiful  woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most  poetical 
topic  in  the  world — and  equally  is  it  beyond  doubt  that 
the  lips  best  suited  for  such  topic  are  those  of  a  bereaved 
lover." 

I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas,  of  a  lover  lament 
ing  his  deceased  mistress,  and  a  raven  continuously  re 
peating  the  word  "Nevermore."  I  had  to  combine  these, 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   COMPOSITION.  297 

bearing  in  mind  my  design  of  varying,  at  every  turn,  the 
application  of  the  word  repeated  ;  but  the  only  intelligible 
mode  of  such  combination  is  that  of  imagining  the  raven 
employing  the  word  in  answer  to  the  queries  of  the  lover. 
And  here  it  was  that  I  saw  at  once  the  opportunity  afforded 
for  the  effect  on  which  I  had  been  depending — that  is  to 
say,  the  effect  of  the  variation  of  application.  I  saw  that 
I  could  make  the  first  query  propounded  by  the  lover, 
the  first  query  to  which  the  raven  should  reply  "Never 
more;"  that  I  could  make  this  first  query  a  commonplace 
one,  the  second  less  so,  the  third  still  less,  and  so  on — 
until  at  length  the  lover — startled  from  his  original  non 
chalance  by  the  melancholy  character  of  the  word  itself, 
by  its  frequent  repetition,  and  by  a  consideration  of  the 
ominous  reputation  of  the  fowl  that  uttered  it — is  at  length 
excited  to  superstition,  and  wildly  propounds  queries  of  a 
far  different  character — queries  whose  solution  he  has  pas 
sionately  at  heart — propounds  them,  half  in  superstition 
and  half  in  that  species  of  despair  which  delights  in  self- 
torture — propounds  them  not  altogether  because  he  be 
lieves  in  the  prophetic  or  demoniac  character  of  the  bird 
(which,  reason  assures  him,  is  merely  repeating  a  lesson 
learned  by  rote),  but  because  he  experiences  a  frenzied 
pleasure  in  so  modeling  his  questions  as  to  receive  from 
the  expected  "  Nevermore"  the  most  delicious  because  the 
most  intolerable  of  sorrow.  Perceiving  the  opportunity 
thus  afforded  me — or,  more  strictly,  thus  forced  upon  me 
13* 


298  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

in  the  progress  of  the  construction — I  first  established  in 
mind  the  climax,  or  concluding  query,  that  query  to 
which  "Nevermore "should  be  in  the  last  place  an  answer 
— that  query  in  reply  to  which  this  word  "Nevermore" 
should  involve  the  utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow 
and  despair. 

Here  then  the  poem  may  be  said  to  have  its  beginning 
— at  the  end,  where  all  works  of  art  should  begin — for  it 
was  here,  at  this  point  of  my  preconsiderations,  that  I  first 
put  pen  to  paper  in  the  composition  of  the  stanza  : 

"  Prophet,"  said  I,  u  thing  of  evil  !  prophet  still  if  bird  or  devil  ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  ?" 
Quoth  the  raven  "  Nevermore." 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first,  that,  by  es 
tablishing  the  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and  grad 
uate,  as  regards  seriousness  and  importance,  the  preced 
ing  queries  of  the  lover ;  and,  secondly,  that  I  might 
definitely  settle  the  rhythm,  the  meter,  and  the  length  and 
general  arrangement  of  the  stanza — as  well  as  graduate 
the  stanzas  which  were  to  precede,  so  that  none  of  them 
might  surpass  this  in  rhythmical  effect.  Had  I  been  able, 
in  the  subsequent  composition,  to  construct  more  vigor 
ous  stanzas,  I  should,  without  scruple,  have  purposely  en- 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  299 

feebled  them,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  climacteric 
effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  of  the  versifi 
cation.  My  first  object  (as  usual)  was  originality.  The 
extent  to  which  this  has  been  neglected,  in  versification,  is 
one  of  the  most  unaccountable  things  in  the  world.  Ad 
mitting  that  there  is  little  possibility  of  variety  in  .mere 
rhythm,  it  is  still  clear  that  the  possible  varieties  of  meter 
and  stanza  are  absolutely  infinite  ;  and  yet,  for  centuries, 
no  man,  in  verse,  has  ever  done,  or  ever  seemed  to  think  of 
doing,  an  original  thing.  The  fact  is,  that  originality  (un 
less  in  minds  of  very  unusual  force)  is  by  no  means  a  mat 
ter,  as  some  suppose,  of  impulse  or  intuition.  In  general, 
to  be  found,  it  must  be  elaborately  sought,  and,  although 
a  positive  merit  of  the  highest  class,  demands  in  its  at 
tainment  less  of  invention  than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in  either  the 
rhythm  or  meter  of  "  The  Raven."  The  former  is  trocha 
ic  ;  the  latter  isoctometer  acatalectic,  alternating  with  hep- 
tameter  catalectic  repeated  in  the  refrain  of  the  fifth  verse, 
and  terminating  with  tetrameter  catalectic.  Less  pedanti 
cally — the  feet  employed  throughout  (trochees)  consist  of 
a  long  syllable  followed  by  a  short ;  the  first  line  of  the  stan 
za  consists  of  eight  of  these  feet — the  second  of  seven  and 
a  half  (in  effect  two-thirds) — the  third  of  eight — the  fourth 
of  seven  and  a  half — the  fifth  the  same — the  sixth  three 
and  a  half.  Now,  each  of  these  lines,  taken  individually, 


3OO  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

has  been  employed  before,  and  what  originality  "The 
Raven  "  has,  is  in  their  combination  into  stanzas  ;  nothing 
even  remotely  approaching  this  combination  has  ever  been 
attempted.  The  effect  of  this  originality  of  combination 
is  aided  by  other  unusual,  and  some  altogether  novel  ef 
fects  arising  from  an  extension  of  the  application  of  the 
principles  of  rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of 
bringing  together  the  lover  and  the  raven,  and  the  first 
branch  of  this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For  this  the 
most  natural  suggestion  might  seem  to  be  a  forest,  or  the 
fields  ;  but  it  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  a  close  cir 
cumscription  of  space  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  effect 
of  insulated  incident  ;  it  has  the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  pic 
ture.  It  has  an  indisputable  moral  power  in  keeping 
concentrated  the  attention,  and,  of  course,  must  not  be 
confounded  with  mere  unity  of  place. 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  chamber — • 
in  a  chamber  rendered  sacred  to  him  by  memories  of  her 
who  had  frequented  it.  The  room  is  represented  as 
richly  furnished  ;  this,  in  mere  pursuance  of  the  ideas  I 
have  already  explained  on  the  subject  of  Beauty,  as  the 
sole  true  poetical  thesis. 

The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to  intro 
duce  the  bird,  and  the  thought  of  introducing  him 
through  the  window  was  inevitable.  The  idea  of  mak 
ing  the  lover  suppose,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the  flap- 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  30! 

ping  of  the  wings  of  the  bird  against  the  shutter  rs  a 
"  tapping"  at  the  door,  originated  in  a  wish  to  increase, 
by  prolonging,  the  reader's  curiosity,  and  in  a  desire  to 
admit  the  incidental  effect  arising  from  the  lover's  throw 
ing  open  the  door,  finding  all  dark,  and  thence  adopting 
the  half  fancy  that  it  was  the  spirit  of  his  mistress  that 
knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first,  to  account  for  the 
raven's  seeking  admission,  and  secondly,  for  the  effect  of 
contrast  with  the  (physical)  serenity  within  the  chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also,  for 
the  effect  of  contrast  between  the  marble  and"  the  plum 
age — it  being  understood  that  the  bust  was  absolutely 
suggested^  the  bird — the  bust  of  Pallas  being  chosen,  first, 
as  most  in  keeping  with  the  scholarship  of  the  lover,  and, 
secondly,  for  the  sonorousness  of  the  word  Pallas  itself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I  have  availed 
myself  of  the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepening 
the  ultimate  impression.  For  example,  an  air  of  the 
fantastic,  approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was 
admissible,  is  given  to  the  raven's  entrance.  He  comes 
in  "  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter." 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he— not  a  moment  stopped  or  stayed  he, 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door. 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the  design  is  more 
obviously  carried  out : 


302  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

11  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no 

craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  nightly  shore- 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ?  " 
Quoth  the  Raven  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  "was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptttred  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus  provided  for,  I 
immediately  drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the  most  pro 
found  seriousness  ;  this  tone  commencing  in  the  stanza 
directly  following  the  one  last  quoted,  with  the  line, 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only,  etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer  jests ;  no  longer  sees 
anything  even  of  the  fantastic  in  the  raven's  demeanor. 
He  speaks  of  him  as  a  "grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt, 
and  ominous  bird  of  yore/' and  feels  the  "fiery  eyes" 
burning  into  his  "bosom's  core."  This  revolution  of 
thought,  or  fancy,  on  the  lover's  part,  is  intended  to 
induce  a  similar  one  on  the  part  of  the  reader — to 
bring  the  mind  into  a  proper  frame  for  the  denouement — 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  303 

which  is  now  brought  about  as  rapidly  and  as  directly  as 
possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the  raven's  reply, 
"Nevermore,"  to  the  lover's  final  demand  if  he  shall 
meet  his  mistress  in  another  world — the  poem,  in  its  ob 
vious  phase,  that  of  a  simple  narrative,  may  be  said  to 
have  its  completion.  So  far,  everything  is  within  the 
limits  of  the  accountable — of  the  real.  A  raven,  having 
learned  by  rote  the  single  word  "Nevermore,"  and  hav 
ing  escaped  from  the  custody  of  its  owner,  is  driven  at 
midnight,  through  the  violence  of  a  storm,  to  .seek  ad 
mission  at  a  window  from  which  a  light  still  gleams — the 
chamber-window  of  a  student,  occupied  half  in  poring 
over  a  volume,  half  in  dreaming  of  a  beloved  mistress  de 
ceased.  The  casement  being  thrown  open  at  the  flutter 
ing  of  the  bird's  wings,  the  bird  itself  perches  on  the  most 
convenient  seat  out  of  the  immediate  reach  of  the  student, 
who,  amused  by  the  incident  and  the  oddity  of  the  visitor's 
demeanor,  demands  of  it,  in  jest  and  without  looking  for 
a  reply,  its  name.  The  raven  addressed,  answers  with  its 
customary  word,  "Nevermore  " — a  word  which  finds  im 
mediate  echo  in  the  melancholy  heart  of  the  student,  who, 
giving  utterance  loud  to  certain  thoughts  suggested  by 
the  occasion,  is  again  startled  by  the  fowl's  repetition  of 
"  Nevermore."  The  student  now  guesses  the  state  of  the 
case,  but  is  impelled,  as  I  have  before  explained,  by  the 
human  thirst  for  self-torture,  and  in  part  by  superstition, 


304  THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION. 

to  propound  such  queries  to  the  bird  as  will  bring  him, 
the  lover,  the  most  of  the  luxury  of  sorrow,  through  the 
anticipated  answer  "Nevermore."  With  the  indulgence, 
to  the  extreme,  of  this  self-torture,  the  narration,  in  what 
I  have  termed  its  first  or  obvious  phase,  has  a  natural  ter 
mination,  and  so  far  there  has  been  no  overstepping  of  the 
limits  of  the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however  skillfully,  or  with 
however  vivid  an  array  of  incident,  there  is  always  a  cer 
tain  hardness  or  nakedness,  which  repels  the  artistical  eye. 
Two  things  are  invariably  required — first,  some  amount 
of  complexity,  or,  more  properly,  adaptation  ;  and  sec 
ondly,  some  amount  of  suggestiveness — some  under-cur 
rent,  however  indefinite,  of  meaning.  It  is  this  latter,  in 
especial,  which  imparts  to  a  work  of  art  so  much  of  that 
richness  (to  borrow  from  colloquy  a  forcible  term)  which 
we  are  too  fond  of  confounding  with  the  ideal.  It  is  the 
excess  of  the  suggested  meaning — it  is  the  rendering  this 
the  upper  instead  of  the  under-current  of  the  theme — 
which  turns  into  prose  (and  that  of  the  very  flattest 
kind)  the  so-called  poetry  of  the  so-called  transcenden- 
talists. 

Holding  these  opinions,  I  added  the  two  concluding 
stanzas  of  the  poem — their  suggestiveness  being  thus 
made  to  pervade  all  the  narrative  which  has  preceded 
them.  The  under-current  of  meaning  is  rendered  first 
apparent  in  the  lines, 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION.  305 

"  Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 
my  door  1 " 

Quoth  the  Raven  "  Nevermore  ! " 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  words,  "  from  out  my 
heart,"  involve  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in  the 
poem.  They,  with  the  answer,  "Nevermore,"  dispose 
the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all  that  has  been  previously 
narrated.  The  reader  begins  now  to  regard  the  raven 
as  emblematical — but  it  is  not  until  the  very  last  line  of 
the  very  last  stanza,  that  the  intention  of  making  him 
emblematical  of  Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance 
is  permitted  distinctly  to  be  seen  : 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore." 


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